


we'll survive, you and i

by hiraethia



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: AFTG Big Bang 2018, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - The Great Gatsby Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gratuitous metaphors, Healing, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Individual warnings per chapter, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Roaring Twenties, Smoking, Snazzy Parties, Suicide Attempt, so much love!!, softness and sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-06-27 05:18:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 51,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15678801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiraethia/pseuds/hiraethia
Summary: “don’t cry, love,” he whispered. jean hadn’t even realized there were tears running down his face. “some things, once you’ve loved them, become yours forever.”(disillusioned and faithless, jean moreau moves to new york with kevin day after his family was killed in the great war. he's perfectly fine with his stagnant life now; even if the number on his cheek will always remind him of it, his days in the navy are behind him, and there won't be another war for a while.but the twenties are roaring, alcohol is banned but no one really listens, and their next-door neighbor is filthy rich and equally mysterious. jean inexplicably finds himself learning how to heal and love the world again).





	1. I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jean struggles to adjust to his life after the great war ends.
> 
>  **warnings** : vague and brief depictions of violence/war, nightmares, briefly referenced suicide, discussions of ptsd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!!!! i'm so fuckin excited to finally be able to share this fic. this has been a labor of love for months now, i put my heart n soul into it. writing this has been so fun yet challenging; i've never done a challenge like the big bang before so this has been an amazing experience.
> 
> peeps to thank: [iris!!](http://exyfexyfoxes.tumblr.com/) was my partner and her art for this fic is just perfect and made me cry, no joke. she's so talented and i just love her a lot, go appreciate her. thank u so so so much, love <3 <3 
> 
> and so many thanks to [defractum](http://defractum.tumblr.com/) for putting the hard work into organizing this awesome challenge in the first place!
> 
> please leave comments/kudos if you like this, and enjoy!! x

There were two recurring dreams Jean had. The first was about his family on the coast of Marseille, before the war. Adalie would dip her toes into the waves as the salty wind blew her dark hair across her face. Their parents would be a few paces up, hats shielding their eyes from the warm sun and white sand.

Jean would approach his sister, resting his hand on Adalie’s head and ruffling her hair. “Have you caught anything?” he would ask her in French. Then his sister would giggle, shaking her head, reaching up to wrap her small fingers around his wrist.

“No, Jean,” she would reply. “Daddy’s too busy to help. Will you come with me?”

They would wade out into the shallows, searching for any fish to catch, blue against unmarred skin. Jean took Adalie by the hand, as if he was afraid a wave would sweep her up and eat her whole. It was peaceful and quiet, filled with the mellow thrum of undisturbed life.

The second dream was about the war.

There was nothing beautiful about it, nothing worth reliving. The noise of bombs detonating, ships capsizing, seas churning - they gripped Jean like a vice whenever he shot awake in the dark. Admittedly, the nightmares weren’t as bad as they were before. He could even try to talk to Kevin about them whenever they got exceptionally bad, whenever his friend found him on the living room floor at midnight, gasping because his lungs just couldn’t work anymore. His friend could never quite understand, of course, but at least he wasn’t mean about it.

But there was one detail Jean had never been able to mention to anyone, one detail that had consistently made its way into every single war-dream he had: coming home and finding the broken bodies of Adalie, his mother, and his father, among the rubble.

By the time the war was over, it had been too late to salvage them. Jean returned home with nothing but the ghost of artillery fire and his little sister’s fading laugh. He’d poured himself a cup of bitter whiskey, left to collect dust in the cabinets, sat down in his father’s old chair, and stared at his infantry cap and uniform until it was too dark to see any longer.

He’d gotten the call from Kevin a couple weeks after the news of victory. He hadn’t been expecting Jean to pick up - maybe it was his way of seeing if Jean had been killed in combat. They were childhood friends until Kevin’s parents had sailed to the Americas and never returned. Despite that, after the memory of Adalie’s smile, Kevin had been the first familiar thing in Jean’s life.

He’d offered to take Jean in. He lived in the West Egg, the less fashionable of the two bays in Long Island Sound. He’d been thinking about Jean ever since he heard the news, he’d said. He was worried sick. He couldn’t handle losing someone else, not after his mother had died in that wretched car accident, not after his father had been killed in combat.

Unsure of what else to do, Jean had accepted his kind offer. Life in France was dismal and gray, after all. He sailed to New York, back on the sea in which he’d watched his own infantry mates spill their blood, and arrived at West Egg.

So he had been living with Kevin ever since.

Jean wished he could vanquish his own ghosts - but it was a lesson he’d never been taught as a soldier. He kept the only picture of Adalie he had left deep inside his bedroom drawer, and he hadn’t looked at it since he left France.

Tonight, it was the second dream that woke Jean up. Shirt plastered to his back with sweat, he silently crawled out of his bed and fumbled his way to the bathroom. Jean leaned against the counter heavily, gripping it tightly as he taught himself how to breathe once more.

After a few harsh minutes, Jean’s breathing finally settled, and he unlocked his limbs and looked up. 

His normally tan skin was pale and clammy, his eyes shadowed and dark. His lips were drawn downward in a frown as he scrubbed a hand roughly across his face, raking his shaky fingers through his sweaty hair until it was some semblance of normal again. Jean splashed water onto his face, letting out a sharp breath.

The  _3_ tattoo on his face stood out starkly in the unnatural light. Jean's throat tightened when he stared at it, when he reached up and touched his fingertips against the ink.

He'd gotten it with Bastien, his former infantry mate and friend. There had been a lull in fighting, long enough for them to break away and find a nearby parlor. They'd gotten matching tattoos: the number 3.

It had been their division number, after all.

Jean tore his gaze away from the mirror, forcing himself to straighten up, and headed for the kitchen. Light already filtered through the half-drawn curtains, spilling in careless pools onto the floor. 

He hated the way he reacted to the nightmares, but he supposed he was lucky. After all, he didn’t have flashbacks, nor did he collapse because he was convinced that the car backfiring next door was an artillery explosion. If Jean’s mind was an empty room, then his issues were the dust motes drifting mournfully through the air.

He knew he’d gotten the easy way out, especially after he’d received the letter from Bastien’s mother, telling him had shot himself in their pool.

 _Shell shock_ , she’d said. _It was that goddamned shell shock_.

Pouring himself a glass of whiskey, he stood by the windowsill and peered outside at the glittering neighborhood, staring outside until the remnants of his nightmare finally faded away.

Their house was at the very tip of the bay, nestled between two huge mansions. One was up for rent every summer. The other, according to Kevin, was Josten’s castle. Jean had to admit it looked quite beautiful - it reminded him of the Hotel de Ville in Normandy - but he never spoke with his neighbor once.

The thing about Josten and his castle was: it was terribly noisy all the time. Every other night, the gentleman threw parties like it was the last day of his life. Sometimes it got so loud Jean couldn’t sleep. He preferred silence. He'd never gotten enough of it, during or after the war. He told Kevin as much, and his friend said mournfully:

“Oh. You’re more like him than I thought.”

Jean didn’t think much of it at the time. “You know him?” His accent coated his voice thickly whenever he spoke, remnants of his hometown stubbornly clinging on despite having learned English, both during his time in the navy and with Kevin.

His friend nodded. “I used to be business partners with him.”

“What business?” Jean sipped slowly from his glass of gin. Kevin shifted in his seat, running a hand through his obsidian hair. Their window hung half open, allowing the music from Josten’s castle to drift into the kitchen. Strings and saxophones mixed exuberantly into an unrecognizable tune.

“It was a private business,” Kevin finally said after some time. Jean almost forgot what his question had been. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

He finished off his liquor and stretched. “Are you friends with him?”

“We could be.” Kevin shrugged. “I go to his parties sometimes, and we talk if I find him.”

Jean didn’t ask anything else. They finished their dinner in relative silence, and then Jean retreated into his bedroom.

He had another dream that night. He and Adalie were swimming - and then the sea exploded.

 

\--

 

The summer evening was heavy. Jean sat on their porch, watching the cars pull in and out of Josten’s driveway. He was waiting for Kevin to return home from work - he was a bonds seller - while smoking a cigarette. Jean idly observed the new partygoers who pulled up to the curb. Out came an elaborately dressed couple, skin glittering and eyes gleaming, mouths wide-open in raucous laughter.

He looked away, tilting his head back and exhaling the smoke. In the lavender sky, the first few stars were already appearing. Jean looked for Adalie Moreau - he’d named one after her. It was always a few degrees off true North, to the left.

Headlights flashed in his peripheral vision, and Jean turned to see Kevin’s car roaring around the corner. He stood up after crushing his cigarette on the porch and watched his friend step out.

“Selling went okay?” Kevin ignored his question, peeling off his coat and tossing it onto their couch as soon as he stepped inside. Jean stayed by the doorway, crossing his arms and staring as Kevin headed straight for the cabinet and downed a glass of whiskey.

“No. I want a new job,” Kevin said shortly once he finished. Jean hummed as he spat out, “Sons of bitches don’t know how to do their jobs.”

“That’s too bad.”

“I don’t know why I thought selling bonds was a good idea. Jean, tell me. Why was it a good idea?”

“I never said it was. Was it Sebastian again?”

“Sebastian. _Enculeur de mouches_.” Jean snorted quietly. Kevin glared at him, but took another swig anyway. Rolling his eyes, Jean turned around and finally shut the door.

“You may want to stop drinking. We’re going to Renee’s for dinner, remember?”

“I can drink all I want,” Kevin muttered petulantly, though he reluctantly set aside the bottle.

“I guess I have to drive now.”

“Like you’re mad about that. You love my car.” Jean raised his eyebrows but let Kevin storm about, working his anger off before they drove to the East Egg, where Renee lived with Jeremy. They weren’t married or anything: Jeremy was still a Knox, and Renee was still a Walker. They merely lived together to share their mutual wealth and friendship.

Once Kevin finally cooled off, they headed back outside. Jean donned his old coat, rolling up the sleeves and tucking his cold hands into the pockets. He forced Kevin into the passenger seat while revving the engine. His friend grumbled some other obscure French curse Jean probably should’ve regretted teaching him under his breath, before reaching into the compartment and pulling out a pack of cigarettes.

“You want one?”

“No.” Jean pulled out of their driveway, careful to avoid hitting anyone who was still heading up to Josten’s castle. He cast one last look at the mansion.

The lights made it look like the world fair, brilliant and golden and flooding like entire oceans all the way to the other end of the street. Next to it, their home looked like a shabby cottage.

A listless, ironic smirk pulled at Jean’s face, and he floored the accelerator. The tires were a bit old; they screeched as he rounded the corner. Smoke rose from Kevin’s cigarette as the warm bay air blew across their faces.

When they arrived, they ate dinner out in the front yard. Shielded by the shade of elaborate architecture and white silk curtains, they had a wonderful view of the bay and all the boats scoring foamy lines across the water. Jean listened to Kevin and Jeremy ramble on about something he’d lost track of half an hour ago, while languidly sipping his wine.

Movement flickered in front of him. Jean looked up to see Renee sitting down, a kind smile on her face, warmer than the June evening.

“Hello, Jean,” she said. Her voice fluttered gently in the sun-drowned breeze. “I haven’t seen you in a while. Jeremy’s been busy in New York with all these business meetings. How have you been?”

Jean shrugged. He generally refrained from telling people how he _truly_ was. The last time he’d told someone how he truly felt, they had said nothing, just fixed him in this _look_ , pitiful enough to shut him up.

(The war didn’t just destroy lives; it destroyed empathy).  

((Maybe that was why Bastien shot himself, after all)).

Words dried up, he just shrugged, finishing his sweet wine. “I’m alright.” Excluding the nightmares, he really _was_ alright. It wasn’t a lie, more of a half-truth.

Renee’s face flickered in the orange glow. She tilted her head to the side, her smile strangely understanding, and said, “I’m glad to hear. I know it’s been some time since the war.”

“Kevin’s thinks it’ll be in the history books.” Jean picked up a piece of bread and began to tear it apart. “Think they’ll have our names in it?”

“There won’t be enough time for every name,” Renee said sadly. She really, genuinely did seem upset. Jean didn’t feel too bad about it; he’d accepted it. “Time is too precious now.”

Jean shrugged off Renee’s condolences. He didn’t need them. The past was the past, and he’d always have the bruises it left on his wrist from gripping too harshly. It would always haunt him - it was written so deeply in Jean’s bone marrow that he feared letting go would mean destroying himself in the process. All he had to do was wear longer sleeves, ignore the people staring when it got too hot to wear those goddamn sweaters, and move on.

Renee glanced over at the two other men beside them. Kevin was leaning into the table, one hand gripping his glass of wine hard, while Jeremy looked on, amused. Jean thought maybe he was talking about Sebastian; he always knew ways to fuck things up for Kevin at work.

“Jeremy’s been talking to me,” she said. “He wants to make Kevin a job offer at the hotel. It’ll be quite prosperous for him.”

“Hotel? The one in New York?”

“Yes.” Renee’s face softened for some reason. “It won’t be far. Just half an hour or so of commute there and back.”

Jean glanced at his friend again. He then stared at the bottom of his wine glass mournfully, just realizing it was empty.

“He hates selling bonds, anyway,” he said belatedly. Renee chuckled softly.

“We were thinking of going upstate later tonight,” she said suddenly. “I’d love if you two could join us.”

“We have nothing better to do. Josten’s throwing another party.”

Renee straightened in her seat. “Josten?”

“We’re neighbors. I haven’t talked to him before.” Jean took another slice of freshly baked bread and started to pick it apart. “He’s always throwing parties left and right - it’s like he’ll die if he doesn’t.”

She looked like she wanted to say something else, but the words died before they could make it out of her throat. Sitting back, she smiled again. “I know one of his close friends. Coincidences like that are just so curious.”

“My mother always told me coincidences were the universe being lazy,” Jean said, “putting us in the same shitty situations and everything.”

His lips twitched almost impassively. He never talked about his family anymore, not after they were killed in the war. He’d never been close to his parents like he was close to Adalie, but the memory of his mother’s name still left a trail of ghostly footprints in his mouth.

Suddenly Renee’s smile was a shade too mournful. “I don’t think coincidences have to be tragic all the time.”

Jean closed his eyes briefly, sighing. He wished there was more wine, but it was probably too rude of him to ask. So he shrugged again, before opening his eyes again and meeting Renee’s gaze. Her cross necklace dangled off her chest, the tiny pendant glowing as the evening light caught on it.

“Do you still go to church?” Jean asked, staring at the cross.

Renee started, glancing down at herself like she’d forgotten she was wearing it. She smiled softly, touching the necklace before replying, “Yes, actually. I was talking to the minister about maybe donating some of our money so they can refurbish it.”

“I didn’t think people went to church anymore.”

(That was yet another thing the war took: faith).

((Faith, empathy, and Adalie)).

She raised her eyebrows. “Why not?”

“There’s no point. But I suppose I don’t know much in the first place.” Jean didn’t want to get into a debate, not today. He never really believed in religion before, _especially_ not after he’d been sent off to war. But he wouldn’t tell Renee that. He didn’t consider himself a genuine cynic, just someone who’d witnessed the most depraved parts of humanity and managed to come away _alive_. Not unscathed, but alive nonetheless.

Renee blinked, then reached across the table slowly. Resting her hand over Jean’s, she squeezed lightly when he nodded minutely.

“Maybe when you have the time, you can come pay a visit,” she said.

“I don’t know.”

“Not to worship. Just to see.” Renee smiled, before taking her hand off to take a sip of her wine. She gestured at Jean’s empty glass. “Would you like more?”

He dug his fingernails into his wrist. “It’s alright.”

 

\--

 

Josten’s mansion was bereft of noise by the time they returned home, all the leftover partygoers staggering away. Kevin left the car without saying a word to Jean, making it all the way to his bedroom by some miracle, and collapsing against the sheets. Jean sighed, but managed to tug off his friend’s shoes and toss a blanket over him. Then he turned out the lights and headed back outside.

Their yard was rather small compared to the rest of the house, a grassy knoll overlooking the stretch of Josten’s beach. Jean pulled his coat collar up, shielding himself against the evening winds, and watched the silver stars beat brightly against the navy sky. They blinked in and out, flickering in a heartbeat rhythm. Over on the sound, a few sailboats floated slowly across the waters.

It was nights like these that made all the rough edges in Jean shift just a little back into place.

But it was also nights like these that made Jean realize: perhaps the war was _still_ shattering him.

He was within and without in everything: nostalgic for that bone-marrow passion of life he’d lost, displaced in a world that had seemed to stop moving - all byproducts of the past he kept clinging on to.

A shadow moved in the corner of Jean’s vision, and he turned abruptly to spot a figure walking out from the mansion. With a start, Jean realized it must have been Josten himself.

He was too far away to see the man clearly, but Josten looked monochrome in the silver moonlight. Jean watched as he walked to the end of the dock he owned, so close to the edge it looked like he’d fall in with one misstep. His head was tilted upwards, like he was drinking in the champagne of the skies.

After a long moment, he rocked forward and lifted a hand toward the stars, fingers moving as they traced out constellations. Jean noticed the rise of smoke from a cigarette clasped between the man’s lips.

For a disquieting moment, Jean almost wanted to call out to him. He didn’t know what he’d say. But everything was so silent, and the figure at the end of the dock flickered like an illusion, and for some reason Jean thought he was hallucinating.

But then Josten stretched out his arms again, rocking forward like he wanted to throw himself into the bay.

Jean’s gaze flicked to the other end of the bay where the East Egg was. He tried finding Renee and Jeremy’s house in the oasis of blurry lights, but he couldn’t. Upon looking back at the dock, he found that Josten had vanished.

The night was quiet, the world was frozen, and Jean was alone again, but suddenly everything seemed so much smaller.


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the elusive and mysterious neil josten invites jean to a party.

Jean was sitting on their porch again, idly listening to the music playing next door while his cigarette burned listlessly down to the filter, when the glassy-eyed chauffeur came to him.

“Are you Mr. Jean Moreau?” the man asked in a hoarse voice. In his white gloved hands he held a small envelope. Jean crushed his cigarette on the ground before standing up.

“Yes, I am,” he said, unsure. “And you are?”

The chauffeur ignored Jean’s question, instead holding the envelope out to him. Jean hesitantly took it as the man said, “A message from Mr. Josten, sir.”

WIthout another word, he turned and crossed the lawn back to the mansion, leaving Jean alone on the porch. He glanced down at the paper in his hands, eventually prying open the envelope and taking out the note inside.

 _It would be entirely my honor, Mr. Moreau,_ it read, _if you would attend my little party tonight. I have heard of you many times before from our mutual friend, Kevin Day, and it would be my utmost pleasure to call on you and meet you in person._

Signed _Neil Josten_.

Jean tucked the invitation into his pocket and headed back inside. It was oddly unsettling, after all, to finally put a name to the faceless. He sat down at the kitchen table and listened to the muffled music until Kevin finally came home, curiosity buzzing, just out of reach, on the tip of his tongue.

Around six, the door slammed open. His friend marched into the living room and tossed his jacket over the couch, huffing loudly. “I think I might just take Jeremy up on his job offer.”

Jean hummed as Kevin undid his vest and poured himself a drink - it was routine by now. He merely waited until his friend finished to bring up the invitation.

“So Neil is his first name,” he said. Kevin nearly choked, coughing haggardly into his elbow before swiveling around.

“How did you know?” he asked.

Jean held up the note. “He invited me to his party tonight. Does he do this for everyone?”

Kevin leaned over and snatched the note out of his hand, holding it up to the light and squinting at the elegant handwriting. He muttered, “No, not at all.”

“This makes me wonder: how many times _did_ you bring up my name in conversation?” Jean asked sarcastically, tilting his head to the side as Kevin lowered the note and pursed his lips. “I hope you put in a good word, at least.”

His friend pulled out a chair and sat down. He peered at Jean pensively, before asking, “What do you know about Neil?”

“Not much,” Jean admitted. “Is something wrong?”

His friend pinched the bridge of his nose - a thinking habit. “Neil is...a complicated person,” he began. “He’s built himself a reputation of sorts over the years, and he hasn’t bothered to correct anyone on it. If you’ve read the papers, sometimes they’ll talk about him - and it won’t be kind.”

“Sure,” Jean said slowly as he processed Kevin’s words. “I don’t understand why you look so concerned.”

“I’m not _concerned_ ,” Kevin retorted. “It’s just odd. Neil doesn’t take interest in anyone, especially not after - ” He cut off abruptly, frowning.

“What?”

“I shouldn’t be telling you this.” He stood up, turning away from Jean. “It’s not my story to tell.”

Jean picked up the note again and stared at it for a long minute. The words seemed to float off the page the longer he looked at it. He glanced up to see Kevin gazing at him with an unreadable expression, forehead creased in concentration..

“How complicated can one man be?” Jean finally asked to break the silence. It stretched between them, unreasonably tense. Kevin blinked, and his shoulders shook with a silent chuckle.

“Oh, you’d be quite surprised.” He tapped a rhythm against the counter before pushing himself off it, gesturing for Jean to stand and follow him. “Well, I suppose you’re a special guest to _Neil Josten_ ’s party now. You need to wear something that’s less of an eyesore.”

Jean opened his mouth to protest, but Kevin was grabbing him by the wrist and dragging him into the bedroom before he could say anything else.

 

\--

 

Neil Josten’s party changed by the hour.

By five, when the honeyed sky just began to thicken with evening heat, the garden was already filled with countless guests. The grass had just been cut earlier that morning, but it quickly became trampled underneath high heels and sleek dress shoes. Butlers skillfully wove in and out of the crowds, hoisting trays of drinks high above their heads, offering a glass to anyone who looked their way. Noise filled the air, buzzing beneath the noise of an airplane humming above.

By six, the orchestra arrived. It was the real thing, a complete set with strings, oboes, saxophones, and everything else. The air grew thick with conversation and failed introductions, with readily forgotten names and quirks as everyone drifted, alone, in a crowd of hundreds.

By seven, when the sky was awash with brilliant oranges and golds, and the sea breeze felt a little colder as dusk began to set in, most of the guests took to dancing inside or at the beach. Neil’s mansion lit up like he’d managed to smuggle an entire carnival inside, the walls alive with noise that reverberated through Jean’s ribcage the moment he stepped into his neighbor’s magnificent garden.

Kevin stayed at his side, often pausing to talk to anyone passing by, before catching up to Jean and complaining about their falseness. “I already forgot her name,” he said of one girl who’d passed them in a dandelion dress. Jean stared at her bare shoulders, remembering the uncomfortable way she’d smiled at him, with far too much hunger.

“Good thing,” he replied, before Kevin caught his wrist. They navigated their way through the crowd, though Jean kept pausing as he couldn’t help but gape at the mansion.

He couldn’t imagine how a single man could live in such a huge place. Perhaps Neil Josten had a family to share it with - but certainly no family would put up with so many strangers in the house at once. He knew that his own mother would’ve hated him if he did something like this, much less every day. And their home in France, small and cozy, had been lonely enough.

Kevin tugged at his hand insistently. Jean tore his gaze away from the giant crystal chandelier and turned to his friend. “Should we find him?” He practically had to holler to be heard over the chatter.

His friend shrugged. “It’d be like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Just wait a while, he might actually join the party for once.”

“What do you mean?” Jean yelled.

“I mean there’s just too many people here and too much room!” Kevin began leading Jean around the staircase spiraling down toward them, taking him into the main hall where most of the millionaires and businessmen congregated. “He rarely comes out during these parties anyway. I’ve only seen him during times like this a few times. Here.” He swept two glasses of champagne off a passing butler’s tray and handed one to Jean. “Cheers.”

Jean hesitantly took the glass, lightly tapping it against Kevin’s. He took a sip while Kevin downed the entire thing; it tasted almost too exquisite, like someone had liquified the stars and captured them inside a bottle. He didn’t think he quite deserved it - or even needed it.

They stood around for a few moments, listening to the conversations around them. Then Kevin straightened up and pointed at Jean’s glass.

“You’re not finishing that?” he asked, almost hopefully. Jean rolled his eyes and handed it to his friend.

“It’s too sweet.”

“I might go to the bar, see if there’s anything there. Come with?”

Jean still couldn’t hear quite as clearly as he would’ve liked, but he wasn’t completely helpless on his own. He knew Kevin knew that, but his friend was just caring for him in his own way. He was a deadweight at these sorts of functions, and Jean could count on one hand the amount of people who cared enough about him to bother; Kevin, surprisingly, was one of them.

“I’m fine here,” he answered. “I wanted to look around anyway.”

Kevin blinked, but eventually nodded briskly. “If you need anything, I’ll probably be at the bar.”

“I’ll be okay, Kevin.” Jean pushed him away gently, amusement flickering in his chest when his friend glared at him, turning and leaving. Alone, Jean glanced around, before heading off to ask around for Neil Josten.

Every corridor of the mansion, every room he accidentally stumbled into, grew more elaborate than the previous. Nobody he asked knew where the mysterious host was, only spouting some lazy conglomeration of rumors when Jean approached them.

“Josten?” one girl in a blue dress repeated. “Why, he’s a complete lunatic. Maybe not outwardly enough to land him in an asylum, but he’s definitely a bit off. Anyway, care to get out of here?”

Jean politely rejected her.

Another man he asked, who looked to be several years older than him, told him, “He’s a strange one. Haven’t seen his face before but I’m a regular at these parties. Better luck next time, chap, he’s a recluse.”

A couple, a tall, expensive-looking man with his wife, replied, “You probably don’t want to associate with him anyways. We heard he’s a fugitive. You never want to associate with someone escaping the law.”

Eventually Jean gave up and tried to search for the bar Kevin had gone off to. The sun had completely set by then, though the entire backyard and beach remained illuminated in bright gold light. He didn’t have much luck in finding his friend, so he floated like a useless buoy in a sea of untouchable strangers.

The sheer amount of conversation quickly crept up on him, wrapping suffocating hands around his throat as he forced himself to breathe, ducking out into the back garden for air.

There, the orchestra was in full swing, humming vivaciously with cheerful jazz. Jean looked around helplessly, before he spotted a familiar head of pale hair. Drawn like a moth to light, he headed toward his only other friend.

“Renee,” he said once he was within earshot. She spun around, giving him a startled but pleased smile.

“Oh, Jean!” She embraced him excitedly, rising to her tiptoes so that she could reach his shoulders; she wasn’t wearing heels that night. “I’m so happy to see you! I didn’t know you’d come.”

“I didn’t think you’d be here either,” Jean said when they pulled apart.

“I don’t normally come here,” Renee replied warmly, “but my church meeting was cancelled and Jeremy’s busy with the hotel, so I thought I’d pass the time somewhere fun.”

“Do you happen to know where I can find Neil Josten?” Jean asked as a butler swept by them and another cool glass of champagne was promptly pressed into his hand. “He invited me here but I haven’t been able to find him all night. Nobody here seems to know.”

Her smile fell slightly as she shook her head, accepting the glass when Jean offered it to her. “No, I’m sorry. I’m afraid I don’t know much about him either.”

“It’s alright.”

The light gave her eyes a softer glow, the dark ring around her irises blurring. “I don’t indulge in the rumors people spread about them, especially the things they say about him in the papers,” she said thoughtfully after a pause. “I think we ought to give him a chance to show who he really is, don’t you?”

“I don’t know him.”

“It’s a shame, the way people will paint a picture without even looking at the subject.” Renee sighed, sipping at the champagne. “Are you here with Kevin?”

“Yes,” Jean replied distractedly. “I lost him to the bar.”

Chuckling lightly, Renee touched his elbow comfortingly. “I’m supposed to go meet someone right now. I’ll see you around?”

“Of course.” Leaning down so that she could chastely kiss his cheek, Renee left him with a lingering smile.

Jean stood still for a bit, idly swaying along with the sound of the orchestra. Then he eventually made his way back inside, heading up the stairs to where there were much fewer people. He found an empty spot by the balcony, leaning against the railing. Everyone beneath him looked tiny, like ants bathed in the glow of crystal chandeliers and glory. He accepted a glass of whiskey when it was handed to him - not that overly sweet champagne - by a different butler. It was tasted far better.

After several minutes, maybe ten or thirty, someone else came out of the crowd and stood next to Jean with a soft sigh. He glanced at them out of the corner of his eye.

The newcomer was a man who looked about Jean’s age, maybe a year or two younger. Dressed in an expensive-looking suit with a single white flower tucked against his chest, he looked immaculate. Magenta light flickered across his face so Jean couldn’t quite make it out clearly, but he could see flashes of blue shielded by long eyelashes and a slender nose splattered with freckles. His hair, dark with gloss, was combed carefully into one elegant wave, though a wayward curl stubbornly hung over his forehead.

The man glanced over at Jean, catching him staring. Jean quickly looked away, his cheeks blossoming with almost-shame. But the man didn’t seem to take offense, only dipping his head in a respectful nod.

“I have to say, you do look familiar,” he remarked. “Were you in the navy during the war?”

Jean blinked, his grip around the glass tightening for only a brief moment. But there was nothing judgmental in the man’s gaze, only some strange, poignant understanding.

“I was in the French navy, yes,” he finally said carefully, forcing himself to relax his fingers. “But I don’t remember you.”

“We never really fought together,” the man said. “I was with the Fourth Division. I remember faces very well, though.”

“Were you drafted?”

“Oh, no.” An oddly self-deprecating expression crossed his face just then, bordering on too sharp and too _dangerous_. “I was just sick of life at home.”

Jean couldn’t mull over the man’s words too long, because suddenly he launched into a conversation about one of the grayer French towns he’d fought in. Jean listened, not because he was bored and had nothing else to do, but because he could feel the name of said town growing on his tongue, a dim shape in a pile of jumbled memories.

But he couldn’t quite find it.

Eventually their talk subsided, and they returned to watching the people below. The man lit a cigarette, holding it between his fingers, before leaning closer. Jean's eyes caught on his ring: it glowed green as it reflected the light. 

“Having a good time, yes?” the man asked.

“I’ve never been to a party like this before,” Jean said absently. “I’ve been asking around for Neil Josten for a while now, but no one seems to know where he is.”

The man paused. He gazed at Jean with barely disguised amusement.

“Something I said?” Jean asked, sipping his drink as the man stared at him for a second too long.

“I’m Neil,” he said suddenly.

_Oh._

It was shock first, then sudden embarrassment. Jean coughed slightly on his drink, before hastily apologizing. “Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“It’s quite alright. I’m not a very good host, after all. Why don’t we have a proper introduction?” A half-moon smile delicately curved Neil’s rosy lips as he held out his hand. “Jean Moreau. It’s a pleasure.”

Jean glanced down at it blankly, before looking up and _meeting_ Neil’s eyes. He hadn’t paid much attention to them beforehand - the light had been distracting him after all - but he looked closer this time.

They were piercing in the oddest sense, whimsical like desperate three o’clock dreams, ethereal like fragile breaths caught between orchid lungs, rare like a lightning strike in the summer afternoon. Under their keen glare, Jean felt horribly visible, like he was being _seen_ for the first time. Stripped bare of his masks and flesh until all that was left was his terrible, _terrible_ humanity.

He started, inhaling the warm air deeply, and grasped Neil’s hand. His fingers were calloused and rough, but also strangely soft. The metal of his ring was cool against Jean's skin.

“I’m sorry,” Jean said again belatedly, his words dragging cumbersomely across his tongue. “I didn’t mean to - ”

“Of course. I get it.” Neil crushed out his first cigarette and then lit another one. The flames flickered up in a burst, illuminating the contour of his elegant face for a second in bright orange. “So, like I asked, are you having a good time?”

“Oh, sure,” Jean said, his hand still warm from where Neil had grasped it. “It - the orchestra is nice. It’s just a bit too much noise sometimes.”

“Too much noise?”

Jean corrected himself again. “It’s nothing personal. I just - ” He swallowed dryly, subconsciously running a hand across the scar on the back of his hand, where a piece of shrapnel had pierced his skin during one particular skirmish. He decided against the truth. “The noise gets a bit grating at times. It’s not my taste.”

“Hm. Finally, someone different.” Tucking his hand behind his back, Neil fixed Jean in an unsettlingly thoughtful gaze, fingers gripping the sleeve of his tuxedo. “The orchestra does tire me out. The same song over and over again, you see. I haven’t been bothered to hire a new one.”

Before Jean could respond, another man made his way up the stairs toward them. He was as tall as Jean was, if not taller, with dark hair slicked back from his tanned, roughened forehead. He touched Neil’s shoulder gently, before leaning down.

“Hatford is calling, Neil,” Jean heard him say.

“Tell him to call back sometime tomorrow morning,” Neil replied easily. “How is Dan?”

“She’s wonderful.” The butler cast a glance in Jean’s direction. “Allison has been looking for you. She lost you after talking to Renee.”

Jean started at the mention of his friend’s name. Meanwhile, Neil waved his hand in Matt’s direction. “Tell her I’m fine.” Then he took a drag from his cigarette, heaving a great sigh and watching the smoke rise into the air. “Perhaps she can keep Uncle Stuart busy. I will be with Jean.”

The butler left after giving Neil another squeeze on the shoulder. Then Neil turned back to Jean, offering him a brilliant smile. Then he turned around, beckoning for Jean to follow over his shoulder. “Let’s find somewhere quieter.”

Jean didn’t think he had a choice but to follow him.

They were halfway across the indoor balcony when a lady clad in a glittering black dress and a fierce glower stopped them. Blonde hair fell in freshly styled curls across her broad shoulders. Black netting and ornate feathers from her hat obscured her eyes, but Jean could still see them glimmering at him: stormy and piercing.

“I told you to stop running off like that, idiot,” she spat at Neil, though Jean’s gaze fell down to where she’d protectively linked their arms together. “You make my job so much harder.”

“I’m fine,” Neil said mildly, glancing in Jean’s direction. “That’s Jean Moreau.”

“His neighbor,” Jean supplied helpfully when the lady swung a harsh glare in his direction.

“I’m showing him around.” Neil patted her arm. “Weren’t you just with Renee?”

“I was, then I noticed that you’d somehow disappeared again. You’re not a magician, Josten,” she finally said, rolling her eyes before letting go of his arm. “Quit the vanishing act.”

“You don’t have to coddle me,” Neil said, this time with a slight edge to his voice. “Get on with it. Stuart’s calling, by the way.”

“Oh, so now I’m your secretary too,” she grumbled, brushing past his shoulder. Jean watched with mild interest as she stormed down the stairs, her dress trailing behind her like smoke.

Neil let out a sharp breath, before turning to face Jean again. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s alright.”

“I’ll show you the main view. Come on.” They headed along the terrace, pausing so that Jean could look out the ornate windows. Crowds flooded the stretch of beach Neil owned, mere pinpricks of silver and black from afar. The scene wasn’t like Marseille at all; the sea blended with the night like pure tar. The stars were sparse that night, blurred by the city lights, as if someone in a hurry had carelessly spilled them across the sky.

He turned away from the window, his breath catching when he found Neil already gazing back at him.

Exposed in the half-light, his face was an empty sea: desolate but bright, hauntingly sad but brilliant. His blue irises were wilting bluebells. He transformed often: Jean didn’t know if he looked more like a human or a ghost in the glow of the moon.

Then the moment was gone, and Neil shifted toward him again.

“I bought this place a few years ago, after the war.” His voice was an ocean-distance away, a drowsy siren song; he spoke quietly but surely, softly enough that Jean had to lean in closer to hear everything he had to say. “I was thinking of staying in France, actually. I learned quite a bit of French there, but my uncle convinced me to return to the states instead.”

“You know French?” Jean asked before he could stop himself. A fleeting smile flickered across Neil’s face.

“Yes,” he replied softly, sucking at his cigarette until the cherry glowed red again. “I picked up many languages while abroad. Allison helped teach me - she’s the lady you saw earlier - since her father owned a few businesses in Paris.” He paused like he was thinking, before adding, “She’s quite the character, isn’t she?”

When Jean stayed silent, Neil continued, as an afterthought, “She wrote that invitation herself, by the way.”

“Oh?”

“I hate writing notes.” Neil’s lips twitched as he flicked some ash off his cigarette. “They’re useless. They never get your point across.”

Jean was saved from an answer when the same butler from before entered the room. They both turned as he headed over, a serious expression shadowing his face.

“Neil, Stuart wants you. _Now_ ,” he murmured once he got close enough.

“Even Allison Reynolds wasn’t enough?”

“No. He wants to talk to you.” The butler glanced almost apprehensively at Jean as he said it. Neil noticed, then shook his head.

“He’s okay,” he said quietly. “Show him to the pool, won’t you? Thank you, Matt.”

Matt nodded with a tight smile, patting Neil on the elbow as the latter strode around him, before turning to Jean.

“Enjoying the party?” he asked casually. Jean blinked at the sudden shift in tone.

“Oh.” He started when Matt’s smile twitched. “Yes. I am.”

“Everyone loves to go to the pool,” the butler said lightly, motioning for Jean to join him. “Sometimes we light fireworks on the good days, and the best view is always there.”

“The good days?”

Matt shrugged, a sad expression shadowing his friendly one. “Depends on Neil’s mood.”

They headed back down the stairs into the crowd, Matt keeping one hand on Jean’s elbow so he wouldn’t lose him to the sea of bodies. His touch was light enough that it didn’t bother Jean much, though he still would’ve appreciated some space.

The pool itself was magnificent, he supposed. Shaped like the full moon, it was filled to the brim with clear aqua waters. Pieces of broken confetti and glitter floated over the surface, foam lying across the smooth marble from unceremonious jumps inside. It seemed like everyone was gathered around the stairs leading down to the pool, dancing to the orchestra while the ceiling opened up to a perfect view of the night sky. Jean stared at the few stars twinkling over the boisterous crowds and joyful screams, a numb sort of awe spreading to his fingertips.

Someone hollered joyously as they jumped into the water, clothes still on, an act followed by widespread clapping and cheering. 

Jean looked away from the scene and noticed Matt was off talking to someone else. Jean recognized the woman: Allison Reynolds, from earlier. After a few more moments of conversation, Matt headed back in Jean’s direction, casting him an apologetic glance.

“I’m going to have to leave you with Allison,” he said.

Jean raised his eyebrows. “Why do you look so sorry?”

Matt grinned cryptically and shrugged, before moving past him and leaving him alone. But even with all the noise in the background, Jean could still register the unmistakable click of heels against marble tiles, heading right for him.

Allison Reynolds paused in front of him, arms crossed expectantly. Smoke curled from her ruby red lips as she removed her cigarette, holding it between two gloved fingers. She stared at Jean with a calculating gaze for a second too long, shifting her weight to one side and cocking her head.

“Jean Moreau, is it?” she said. Her voice was soft as silk but deadly at the same time. Jean couldn’t help but cross his arms defensively over his chest.

“You’re Allison Reynolds,” he replied. “Neil talked about you.”

“I would like to have a word with you.” She turned around without waiting for Jean’s input, skillfully weaving her way through the thick throng of people. The crowd seemed to part wherever she went, simultaneously repelled and drawn in by her allure, like suicidal moths to flame. Jean only started following her when she showed no signs of slowing down.

Walking briskly, she eventually wormed her way outside. Jean quickened his pace, ignoring the glances cast his way as they crossed into the garden. The orchestra faded out into mere reverberations, and the voices seemed to flicker out completely. No one else was there, allowing the newfound silence to creep into the empty spaces.

Allison only stopped when they reached the entrance to a large maze of neatly trimmed hedges. She waited for Jean to catch up, taking one last drag from her cigarette before tossing it aside. Wiping her fingers on her dress, she finally turned to face him.

“Frankly, I don’t know why he’s taken such an interest in you,” she said bluntly, her voice hollower without the cacophony of music and clashing voices. “I don’t see what makes you special. But he doesn’t make time like this for anyone else.”

Jean stared at her blankly. Her words fumbled around in the moonlit air, clogging up the space. Checkered shadows flickered across Allison’s face as she raised her eyebrows expectantly, and Jean just couldn’t understand.

“I know nothing about him, and he’s my own neighbor,” he finally said, before adding, “If that comforts you.”

Allison scoffed haughtily. She stared out at the crowded beach, blinking once or twice, pursing her lips as she mulled over her words.

“You know he’s dangerous, don’t you?” This time her gaze was darker, more _threatening_. She leaned in close enough that Jean could smell the smoke on her breath. “You _must’ve_ heard the rumors by now.”

“A few.” Jean took a step away from her, but she only shifted forward again.

“That’s curious. Do you read the papers?”

“Sometimes.”

(Only to check that someone else wasn’t waging another war again, he was tempted to say).

Cocking her head to the side, Allison asked, “What do they say about him? Is he new money? Is he a bootlegger? Is he a murderer? What is he?”

“Nothing.” Vague annoyance flickered in his chest. “Why does that matter?”

“People say he’s killed a man, or fifty.” Allison’s sharp eyes glinted almost maliciously, and her mouth looked bloodstained. “People say he’s an addict or a madman. Do you believe them, _Jean Moreau_? Because he’s far more than that.”

The silence burned between them, dying candlelight.

“Why are you telling me this?” Jean finally asked brusquely. “That could all be nonsense, for all I care. He’s only my neighbor.”

A slow blink, then a cold smirk curling ruby lips. Allison leaned back, a different air about her. She nodded, as if affirming something for herself.

“Perhaps he does have reason,” she mused vaguely. Jean frowned.

“Who _are_ you?” he countered.

“That doesn’t matter.” Allison turned around, a clear dismissal. “There will be another invitation sent to your home by noon tomorrow. I expect you to accept it.”

Jean waited another long minute before sighing quietly when she didn’t say anything else. Turning away from the woman, he started on his way out of the maze. The day’s events swam about his mind, muddled and confusing and fantastic. But he was tired, and he just wanted to go home and perhaps have a drink, and pray for another dreamless night.

Before he could get too far, Allison’s voice rang out again.

“Moreau!”

He paused, halfway out. He glanced over his shoulder, but Allison was already staring at him. Shadows hid her face, but Jean could still feel the weight of her gaze, unforgiving and heavy on his shoulders.

“Your tattoo,” she said, tapping her cheek. “What’s that about?”

Jean froze. He swallowed dryly, sucking in a deep breath. For a moment he swore he could smell the stench of fire and blood again. 

He forced himself to shrug under her watchful gaze.

“My lucky number,” he lied.

Allison didn’t look like she believed him. Of course she didn’t. But she still nodded, eyebrow quirked. “Okay.”

He left before she could utter another word. Jean hurried out, accidentally jostling one of the butlers on his way back in the direction of the pool. Already, the place was beginning to empty. Few celebrities remained, unbelievably drunk and wailing over the grand piano. One lady sat at the base of the stool while her husband played some ear-bleeding tunes, black-ink tears streaking her flushed cheeks as she sipped slowly from a glass of champagne. Jean looked away, shouldering his own coat, as he headed for the entrance.

Before he stepped outside, he paused and looked back.

The mansion was demolished. Shattered glass laid on the ornate floor where some clumsy fool had broken one of Neil’s rather expensive-looking vases. Rose and orchid petals remained scattered on the floor, the vibrant colors stamped out underneath blackened footprints.

Neil was nowhere to be seen.

“Jean?”

Kevin’s voice startled him out of his reverie. He whirled around to see his friend standing in the petal-littered courtyard, hands buried deep within his pockets as he offered up a half-sober frown.

“Kevin,” he replied, making his way down the stairs.

“I was looking for you. Where’d you go?”

“Allison Reynolds wanted to have a word.”

“Reynolds?” Kevin’s brows furrowed as Jean reached his side. “The hell would she want to do with you?”

“I don’t know.” Jean felt so weary all of a sudden. “I don’t know. Do you want a drink?”

“I drank already,” his friend said. “I was at the bar, remember?”

“We’ll have another one.” Grabbing Kevin’s arm, Jean dragged him off.

Later that night, Kevin fell asleep on the couch while listening to the radio and trying to teach Jean about the fall of the Roman empire. He wrapped his friend in a blanket and sat by the kitchen window, nursing a glass of whiskey while staring at Neil’s castle.

One by one, the lights began to go out, until all that remained was the brightness of the room overlooking the pier. Jean watched as the shadows flickered, and the last light finally blew out, leaving the world dark and unknown once more.


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> neil reintroduces himself to jean.
> 
>  **warnings** : nightmares, some bloody images (not serious), ptsd symptoms

Jean woke with lingering pain in his temples and the smooth wood of the table pressing against his cheek. As he sat up his neck twinged with pain, and he groaned slightly at the feeling.

“Good, you’re awake.” Kevin’s voice was awfully loud. Jean started, rubbing sleep out of his eyes as he struggled to adjust to the sudden light. His friend was sitting on top of the counter, watching him out of the corner of his eye as he looked up from his book.

“What time is it?” Jean asked, stretching out the pain in his neck and forcing himself to stand.

“It’s almost noon.” Amusement glowed softly in Kevin’s voice as he teased, “I woke up before you. For once.”

“I fell asleep late.” Jean walked over to fetch a glass of water, glancing at the spine of Kevin’s book. “ _Les Miserables_?”

“Yes, the French edition. Just for practice.” He watched as Jean tinkered around in the kitchen for a few more minutes, before shutting his book and leaning forward. “You never answered my question last night.”

“What was it?”

“What did Allison Reynolds talk about with you?”

The memories of the previous night swam around dizzily in Jean’s mind. It was as if he had no choice but to remember the way Neil’s _blue_ eyes burned, the way he talked with that voice of money. He could still remember Allison’s voice, sharp and loud where Neil’s was soft and alluring, the sneer on her lips as she spoke while Neil smiled an exquisite sort of sadness.

“She only wanted to tell me about the rumors people were spreading about Neil,” Jean replied distractedly, shoving the clinging memories aside. “I’m not sure why. I did manage to find him, though.”

Kevin’s eyes widened. “You did? How?”

“Well, _he_ found _me_. I didn’t know it was him, though.” Jean finished the water and set it aside. To his relief, the ache in his head finally began to clear up. When he opened his eyes again, he found his friend staring at him with something resembling amazement in his eyes.

“ _What_?” Jean demanded.

“Nothing. It’s just strange.” Shaking his head, Kevin jumped off the counter. “This whole situation is strange.”

“Thank you,” Jean said dryly. “They’re sending me another invitation today, too.”

Kevin eyed him curiously as he shrugged on his coat. “What do you think about him?”

The answer should’ve been simple where it was in every way complex. Jean couldn’t help but pause and think.

Neil was quite different from the other men he’d met before, in one way: he was memorable where he thought he was forgettable. His lack of vanity in itself was enough to pull Jean in, pull _everyone_ in.

No wonder those rumors spread so quickly, he thought.

“He’s certainly something,” Jean finally said.

The tension left Kevin’s shoulders in a long sigh. “Well, you’ll be going back without me tonight. I’m supposed to meet with Jeremy today.”

“Are you accepting his offer?”

“I really think I will.” Kevin eyed Jean for another long moment, before adding as if on a whim, “Be careful with Neil, won’t you?”

“You’re awfully caring,” Jean remarked dryly.

Kevin scoffed.

“I’ve known him for years,” he said, “but then again, I don’t think I know him very well at all.” He shrugged again, opening the front door. “I’ll see you later.”

He left Jean alone in the kitchen, head buzzing with unknown questions and fleeting curiosity.

 

\--

 

True to Allison’s word, someone showed up a couple hours past noon to deliver the invitation. Jean was sitting outside in the garden when the figure emerged on the sidewalk. He recognized the butler as Matt, standing up to greet him.

“Good afternoon,” Matt said with a friendly smile as he handed Jean the invitation. “I’ll admit it’s a bit impractical, but Neil and Allison are all about being dramatic.”

Jean couldn’t resist raising his eyebrows with a soft scoff as he glanced down at the note. “They’re perfect for Kevin then.”

Smile lines appeared in the corners of Matt’s eyes. “Drama queen?”

“You could say that,” Jean said, scanning the elegant cursive stretching across the paper. “Thank you.”

Matt nodded, still smiling, and headed out of their garden. Jean watched him retreat all the way to Neil’s lawn, where the grass still looked half-trampled from the previous night’s party. But all the broken flower petals and champagne glasses were already gone, cleaned up almost instantly.

Distantly, Jean remembered how slow the clean-up was after the war. The bodies laid around for maybe weeks before finally being picked up.

(Adalie had been among them).

The thought of his sister was enough to completely sour his mood. His stomach began to churn. Jean retreated to his bedroom, curling up in his bed while he held the note up to the light.

_Moreau, consider this an informal invite. Come at 7 tonight, or don’t. I wouldn’t miss you either way._

It wasn’t signed by anyone that time.

Tucking the paper away on the nightstand, Jean rolled over onto his back. Clasping his hands over his stomach, he stared up at the ceiling. It was old and the paint was beginning to chip and peel away, but at the same time, Jean couldn’t imagine himself living in a place like Neil’s. He’d rather have cracks in the ceiling than a crystal chandelier reflecting fractals of light - home was where the heart was, after all.

(Or rather, home _was_ the heart).

((And sometimes, the heart was fraying)).

He rolled over to his side, busying himself with flipping through Kevin’s copy of _Les Miserables_. His friend had taken countless notes in the margins of the yellowed pages. Jean carefully translated the French to English; he even imagined reading it out loud to Adalie.

“But he only wanted bread for his sister,” she would’ve said. “Why can’t they just give him the bread?”

“That’s the tragedy of the book,” Jean would’ve said back.

Then she’d ask, “Would you do the same for me, Jean?”

And he’d reply, “I’d steal the whole world for you, Adalie.”

(But instead, the world had stolen her).

((And Jean would’ve fought the entire goddamn _universe_ for his sister if he had to; but instead he’d been too busy fighting for his own life, for his own country, to save his own family)).

He shut the book tightly and tucked it on Kevin’s overcrowded shelf. His life was a series of rabbit holes, and he just kept falling down every single one of them. No matter how much closure he tried to get, he’d always trip over his own misplaced guilt.

Jean poured himself some bourbon and collapsed onto the armchair, passing the time until he had to leave. By the time the door creaked open, signalling Kevin’s return home, he had finished counting all the different cracks on the wall.

“Jean? You’re still here?” he called from the doorway. When Jean didn’t reply, Kevin came down the hallway and paused, fixing him with a incredulous glare. “I thought you were going to be with Neil today.”

“Yes,” he said.

“Do you need me to dress you again?” Kevin asked obnoxiously. Jean finally turned his head to glare at his friend. He always knew how to get Jean out of his hazy numbness, even if it was by annoying him.

“You’re insufferable, you know that?” he asked as he forced himself out of the chair, legs fuzzy from sitting for so long. Kevin only rolled his eyes and headed for his room.

“I accepted the offer, by the way,” he called out after a few moments. “I’m starting next week.”

“Oh?” When Kevin grunted in affirmation, Jean cleared his throat and forced a casual, “That’s good. You won’t need to see Sebastian again.”

“That would be the only reason I accepted,” Kevin said, coming back out with a stack of books, “besides the fact that Jeremy’s great.”

Jean turned away and finished buttoning up his coat, adjusting the collar even when he felt his friend’s suddenly heavy gaze settle on his shoulders. “Well, that’s good,” he said again.

“Jean.”

“I’m happy for you, Kevin,” he said. Even as he said it, the words stumbling out stiltedly and uncomfortable, they both knew that he was lying. Jean rarely talked about how he felt, but even so, the twisted desperation in his voice was enough to offset Kevin’s contentedness: _I’m scared I might lose you._

Admittedly it was an irrational thought, but he couldn’t help it. The memory of Adalie’s loss rubbed him raw; his mind wasn’t exactly in the best shape at the moment.

Just before Jean made his way to the door, his friend stepped in front of him, barring him from leaving.

“Kevin,” Jean protested as he tried to move around him, but his friend just pushed him back.

“This won’t change anything, you know,” he said, staring at Jean intently. “It’s only a job after all.”

“I know. I’m being - I know.” Jean wished he hadn’t opened his mouth at all. But the ache in his chest settled a little at Kevin’s words.

There was something resembling understanding in his friend’s eyes as he looked on, before he finally nodded and stepped aside.

“Tell Neil I said hello,” he called as Jean headed for the door.

“I will,” Jean returned.

 

\--

 

The sunset was late, turning the bay into a brilliant watercolor of gold. Allison was the one to greet him, fixing him in a scrutinizing glare before stepping aside.

“Is no one else here?” Jean asked quietly as he observed the eerily silent house, the entire first floor empty save for him and Allison.

“No. Neil wanted to talk to you alone,” she said. “Something about too much noise.”

Jean ignored the prickle in his chest at the thought of Neil parroting his own words, before following her up the stairs. Somehow everything felt a hundred times bigger without the bodies occupying it.

The doors to the balcony were wide open, filling the entire room with the salty scent of the bay breeze. Allison paused, gesturing at the open door.

“Enjoy,” she said sarcastically, before turning to leave.

Jean glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. He found himself remarking, for no reason, “I know you wrote that note.”

Allison hesitated, before glowering at him over her shoulder. Though there wasn’t as much anger and suspicion in her gaze as before.

“Good,” she just said. “You learn quickly.” Then she headed downstairs again, the resounding click of her heels fading as she left Jean alone, mind spinning.

He suddenly felt disoriented, like if he reached out and touched the wall it’d dissipate into smoke. It didn’t feel real, being here, being here _alone_ with _Neil Josten_ , whom he knew virtually nothing about. Being left alone with the enigma, with the mystery, expecting to unlock it without the key - it was disquieting.

Jean closed his eyes before his thoughts could run away from him, taking a fortifying breath. He so often vacillated between numb boredom, transient contentedness, and knee-jerk misery that he couldn’t quite discern whatever was left in between anymore.

Being in that room, surrounded by vast wealth and _newness_ \- nothing like his old home back in France - Jean felt strangely stripped and naked. Like his war memories had been pushed into the back of his mind for just the briefest moment, in favor of something less faithless, something less gray.

He stepped inside the empty room, glancing around. The last of the sunlight had died away, replaced with the warm glow of outdoor lamps and moonlight. He tentatively glanced through the glass doors, and that was where he saw Neil standing at the edge of the balcony.

His hair glowed like a halo on fire as smoke rose from the cigarette inevitably dangling between his lips. He was dressed casually this time, in a loose sweater that somehow still hugged his frame and midnight slacks.

Neil turned around like he’d known Jean was there all along. Smoke poured from his mouth, before promptly dissipating into the warm evening as he removed his cigarette.

“Hello, Jean,” he said, his voice slightly hoarse. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Jean’s words caught in his throat when their eyes met.

It was simultaneously agonizing and achingly relieving, that piercing look in Neil’s gaze. He had that thing about him, that thing that said: I see you, _really_.

As far as he knew, Jean wasn’t an unknown entity in Neil’s eyes. They’d known each other for _years_ , his gaze said. They were old friends. And Jean was a ghost, made real when Neil trapped him inside a jar like a firefly.

He shifted his weight when Neil raised his eyebrows, and clasped his hands behind his back. “Thank you for having me,” he said politely, unsure of what else to say. Neil’s lips quirked again, before he turned back around and leaned against the railing. Jean waited for a long minute, before forcing himself to move.

He joined Neil on the marbled balcony, staring at the beach and garden below. Jean thought he could see Matt working in the distance, adjusting one of the lights on the lamps. After a minute, Neil exhaled sharply.

“You’re probably wondering why you’re here,” he said softly.

“Yes,” Jean replied, pressing his weight against the sturdy railing.

“Allison did spring this on you,” Neil mused. “She tends to do that. Did she scare you?”

“She confused me, but she did not scare me.”

“Good.” Neil’s eyes glowed in a way that wasn’t just from the lamp light. “See, I just didn’t want you to get the wrong impression of me. People tend to do that, just make assumptions.”

“Oh.”

“You’re a good man, Jean. I trust that you won’t take their word over mine.”

“But you don’t know me.” To that, Neil turned and smiled wryly. His eyes narrowed slightly from the force of it.

“We’re alike, you and I. At least, I’d like to think so,” he said quietly. “Sorry I didn’t talk to you sooner. We’ve been neighbors for some time.”

“Two years, at most,” Jean said.

“It’s my fault.” Neil took one last drag from his cigarette before holding it up to his face, staring at the smoldering end of it. Jean watched as he then dropped it onto the pristine floor and crushed it underneath his shoe, leaving a dark smudge on the marble tile.

“I’m sure Allison told you all about the rumors people spread about me,” he said. “She’s quite protective of me.”

“She’s your friend,” Jean said, not quite a statement or question.

Neil sighed, looking back out at the beach. “None of them are true, anyway.”

“None of them?”

“Well, some of them.” There was that smirk again, terribly self-deprecating and knowing. “Normally I wouldn’t be bothered by them, but then again, I’d hate for you to get the wrong impression.”

“You don’t need to prove anything to me,” Jean said quietly. “I’m nobody.”

Nobody to Neil, at least.

The young man’s lips curled, like he was in on some joke that Jean didn’t know about. “I’m nothing as well,” he said.

“Really now,” Jean remarked sarcastically, glancing around at the magnificent estate and garden. Neil’s shoulders twitched as he held back a halfhearted snicker.

“See, you wouldn’t understand unless I told you. Tell me, has Kevin told you about our business yet?”

“No. He said it was private.”

“I guess that’s true.” Neil tilted his chin upwards toward the stars, shutting his eyes briefly. Jean secretly admired the way the moonlight shadowed his elegant eyelashes, casting feathery shadows across his cheekbones. “What _has_ he said about me?”

“That we’re alike, you and I. We fought in the same war, after all.”

He wasn’t sure what exactly it was about Neil that drew the words so willingly out of his taciturn mouth - maybe it was that bright sadness that haunted his eyes, the ghostly hollows glowing with faint life. Jean recognized that sadness; it was the same look that greeted himself every time he looked in the mirror. Or maybe it was the way Neil collected his fireflies but never capped the jar all the way, like he _expected_ them to get away from him. It was equally unnerving and exciting.

“Oh,” Neil breathed thoughtfully. “The war is just one thing. He hasn’t told you everything, then.” He spoke quietly enough that Jean wasn’t sure if he was supposed to hear it.

He was tempted to ask Neil what _everything_ was when the other man straightened up and turned to face him. “See, we used to bootleg together. You know, smuggle alcohol and sell it illicitly. It’s a lucrative trade, but I wouldn’t recommend you do it.”

“You didn’t care about getting caught? ” Jean didn’t know what to say when Neil merely shrugged, like breaking the law didn’t faze him at all.

“Well, I know a few things about not getting _caught_ ,” Neil said mellowly. “And no, we weren’t worried. Kevin had connections, I had connections, so we had an escape even if we _were_ discovered. People condemn bootlegging, but they’re the same ones who kept us in business. It’s probably where I got half my money from. Strange how the world works.”

Jean paused, staring at the ground where Neil had crushed out his cigarette. “And the same people badgering for peace,” he said slowly, as the other man glanced at him curiously, “are the ones sending the poor and helpless off to war. I understand.”

“‘Course you do.” Tilting his head to the side, Neil turned around so that his back was pressed against the railing. He arched his body like he was stretching, allowing the moonlight to strike his face at the new angle. There, Jean could see the faintest scarring running across the bridge of his nose, upper lip, and cheek.

“They call me a murderer too,” Neil said, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “Don’t they?”

“I think so,” Jean murmured.

“It’s not true.” A harsh gleam appeared in Neil’s eyes, vehement disagreement bubbling at his lips. “The line between recreation and survival should be firm, but it blurs far too much.”

“Perhaps.”

Neil began to launch into a whole talk about the difference between murderers and just mere survivalists. Jean lost track of time again - but not out of boredom, this time, but out of sheer fascination. He latched onto each of Neil’s words like every one contained a whole world inside of it. Sometimes he’d even contribute his own thoughts, and Neil would smile quietly and reply.

As time slipped by, the sky turned dark navy. Jean watched as the man reached inside his pocket and fished out his pack of cigarettes, shaking out two. He never seemed to not be smoking. Neil held up a stick in a silent offering, and Jean accepted it.

“Mm. Anyway,” he murmured as he lit up his own cigarette first, “that was what I wanted to say about _that_ particular rumor.” He gestured toward Jean with his silver lighter. “Want help?”

“Thank you.” Jean stuck the stick between his lips and leaned in, close enough that Neil could light the end of his cigarette. For a moment the fire burst forth with a sudden heat, illuminating both their faces in a warm glow, before sputtering down again. Jean held back a shiver as he noticed the splash of amber freckles across the bridge of Neil’s nose.

This time, Neil merely held his cigarette close to his nose without smoking it.

“What else do they say? That I’m an addict?” 

“Yes, but I figured they were just as unfounded.”

“I like smoking.” A private smile dawned on his face, like he’d just told an inside joke to himself.

For a moment, there was nothing else pressing on Jean’s mind. Neil’s conversation mercifully wore down on his tenseness, leaving him blank for just a few blissful seconds. But the young man flicked some ash off his cigarette, eyes distant in the silence, and Jean found himself asking a question borne out of the thing of most tragic familiarity between them.

“Why _did_ you volunteer for the war?”

Neil’s smile faltered just for a second, but Jean caught it and held onto it. The man slowly lowered his cigarette as he pondered over an answer, chewing on his lip.

“The war, you see,” he started, choosing his words carefully, “was a chance to escape for me.  I’m not actually from New York. I was born in Baltimore. Living here in the states all this time - it got grating, to say the least. Then suddenly, there was this Great War. It was terrible, yes, but see, the thing was, I was sick of being a nobody. I wanted to die because I laid my life down for something - not because, say, someone was chasing me down or anything. I really wanted to die _there_ , Jean, I tried so hard. I just couldn’t.

“But I got what I wanted in the end: a chance to get away from home. I came back, of course, I couldn’t really stay away. So I settled for New York instead. I came into a large sum of money thanks to my uncle, actually. He’d heard of my endeavors abroad and wanted to help me out once the war ended. The rest came from my business with Kevin.”

Neil tilted his head to the side, taking a short puff of his smoke to coax it back to life, before smiling again. It was stilted at best. Jean suspected that he’d somehow managed to condense a long and tragic story into a short anecdote, for the sake of his understanding.

The faint, curious stirrings in his chest lived on nonetheless.

Taking a deep inhale from his own cigarette, Jean was careful not to accidentally blow the smoke back in Neil’s face.

“I’m glad some people had heroic stories,” he said. “I never had a choice. I was drafted.”

“I’m not a hero.” Neil shrugged, that self-deprecating grin back on his face. “I don’t know who you’d call a hero nowadays.”

Jean let the argument go. Heroes were bloated, lofty ideas - he supposed that was Neil’s belief. In a way, he agreed.

But perhaps it _was_ heroic, the way they still had the nerve to even breathe after inhaling dust and death and the stench of blood for years; the way they still had the nerve to wake up in the morning even though the blurred memories of past traumas threatened to pin them to the mattress until they rotted.

Perhaps _that_ was true heroism: all the worst and all the littlest things that came and went unnoticed.

“I do have one more question,” Jean decided to say after a long silence, after both their smokes were burnt down to the filter.

“Ask.”

“Why do you call yourself nothing when you have everything?”

He could see the moment Neil understood the question, the moment the sadness in his eyes flared up. And if Jean looked even closer, if he leaned just a little farther in, he could see the fractures in Neil’s flesh, in his bones: the place where his armor ended and his skin began, where his melancholy glow just started seeping through the cracks.

It was terrible enough that Jean almost took back the question. But then Neil replaced his fallen expression with a bitter upturn of his lips.

He spoke delicately, like the truth was shards of glass, and one wrong move would flood his mouth with blood.

“Even if I died, Jean,” he said, almost too cheerfully, “I hardly think my funeral would be a very mournful occasion.”

“I don’t think so,” Jean found himself saying. But they both knew how empty his words sounded. Neil only closed his eyes, waving him off.

“You should come by more often. It gets awfully lonely around here.” Neil started heading inside, dropping the conversation immediately, leaving Jean to follow him. “You really don’t need all the invitations - Allison just likes being dramatic for me. Just give me a call, or walk right in if you want.”

Jean watched as Neil grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled something on it, handing it to him with a brittle smirk. On it were the digits to his telephone.

“Thank you,” Jean said, staring at the writing for a few more moments, before pocketing it. “And thank you for bringing me here. I haven’t - met anyone like you before.”

The corners of Neil’s eyes crinkled slightly in amusement. “Is that so?” He then glanced at the clock mounted upon the center of the wall, and he gasped softly. “Oh, I’ve kept you late. I tend to talk a lot if you get me started on something.”

“It’s alright,” Jean said. He wanted to say more - but in that moment, Neil’s telephone began to ring, the noise piercing through the calm. Neil’s shoulders sagged in a quiet sigh as he headed over to pick it up.

“Neil Josten,” he greeted quietly, before jerking like he’d been shocked. “Oh! I must’ve forgotten to call back.” He cast Jean a sheepish look, before turning around. “I know. I know. When will I see you next? I’m _sorry_ , I just didn’t feel like talking yesterday. And most of today, you’re right. Stop.” He laughed breathily at whoever was on the other end, before removing the phone from his mouth and placing his hand over it. “Jean, this may take a while. I’m sorry.”

“It _is_ getting late, I should probably go anyways,” Jean said, though a part of him, oddly enough, wanted to stay.

“Oh. Okay.” Neil’s expression was open and slack. “I hope I’ll see you soon.”

“I hope so too.” Jean started to head back out, but something made him pause at the doorway. He turned back just as Neil returned to his conversation, his voice hushed but serious.

And the words came out before he could think twice.

“For the record,” he said, catching Neil’s prized attention, “I do believe you.”

Neil stared at him while the words sank in, the phone still held up to his ear. Then a brilliant smile overtook his face, casting aside all the ghosts and shadows in the world for just the briefest moment.

“Thank you, Jean,” he murmured.

Jean found himself almost smiling back.

“Yeah? Sorry, was talking to a friend.” Neil cast him another grateful look, before focusing on his conversation once more. Jean watched him for a few more moments, before slipping out. He headed downstairs, Allison nowhere to be seen, and closed the door lightly behind him.

As soon as he arrived home and headed into the living room, Kevin perked up. “How’d it go?”

Tossing his coat against the back of the dining room chair, Jean ran his hands over his face. “It went well,” he said. “He just wanted to diffuse a few rumors.”

“Oh, right.” Shutting his book, Kevin took his feet off the coffee table. “You look tired.”

“I am,” he murmured, unbuttoning his shirt as he passed by his friend for his bedroom. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Alright. Good night.”

The events, or lack thereof, of the day weighed heavily on Jean’s chest. He shut his eyes as he shoved off his shoes, tossing them aside and collapsing unceremoniously into his bed.

 

\--

 

Jean didn’t have nightmares as often anymore, and fewer times were they ever as brutal as the one he had that night.

He dreamed he was back on the ship, Bastien right next to him. He looked just like Jean remembered him, hair as black as oil falling limply over his forehead, tanned and scarred skin wet from the torrents of rain. He was shouting something, an order of sorts that Jean couldn’t quite understand.

“Come on, Moreau!” Bastien was yelling. His French sounded muffled and watery. “Stop standing there!”

He tried to move, but suddenly he couldn’t; his limbs were frozen in place. He opened his mouth to say something, an apology, _anything_ , but suddenly the ship lurched to the side from the force of the enemy fire slamming into it. Jean couldn’t do anything but watch as Bastien was flung overboard, the water dark red where he’d gone into it.

He didn’t have time to grieve or scream before he heard a familiar voice, high-pitched and delicate, above the cacophony of gunfire and bombs.

He struggled to turn around at the sound of it. “Adalie?”

She stood on the other end of the deck, her usually cheerful face shadowed by something darker - something like _betrayal_.

“You lied to me, Jean,” she whispered. Somehow her voice was louder than the explosions by tenfold.

“What?” Panic stretched its cruel fingers around his throat. “Adalie, I - ”

“You lied. You lied.” Her face scrunched up the way it always did when she was about to cry.

But instead, she _screamed_.

“You said I would be _okay_!”

The floor fell out from under their feet, plunging them both into the ice-cold sea.

Jean shot up awake, a terrible gasp tearing from his chest. Sweat clung to his shirt as he stumbled out of bed, blindly staggering down the hallway as he struggled to breathe.

Eventually he managed to crash his way into the living room, before falling to his knees in the middle of the floor and pressing his head to the ground. It wasn’t a full-on panic attack, but he could barely breathe properly. His heart pounded like a war drum against his ribcage as his sister’s anguished screams echoed in his ears.

_You said I would be okay._

It wasn’t in his control, it had _never_ been in his control - Jean knew that. He hadn’t asked for a war, and he hadn’t asked to be drafted. All he could offer as solace to Adalie before he left was an empty promise and a hollow reassurance that _yes_ , they’d be able to pretend to be fishermen in Marseille again - _after the war was over_.

But guilt was a completely different creature from rationale. It threatened to crush Jean’s chest.

After a long while, he finally managed to steady his breathing. Knees aching from crouching on the floor for so long, Jean slowly forced himself to his feet and hobbled back into his bedroom. Shakily, he changed into a coat, wrapping it tightly around himself as the sweat on his back began to cool, and trudged to the front door. He closed the door as quietly as he could behind him.

Jean absently walked for a while. He walked until his grief settled into familiar numbness, walked until he didn’t feel like he’d lose it every other moment.

Somehow he ended up on the stretch of beach just behind Neil’s castle, standing at the base of the long pier stretching into the bay. With great effort, Jean moved his gaze from the dark waters up to the sky. The haze of the city obscured some of the stars, but they still glimmered stubbornly through the clouds. Jean didn’t bother looking for Adalie that night.

_You said I would be okay._

(No one said anyone would be okay. The world set out to ravage you from the very start).

He sat down at the edge of the pier overlooking the water. Though his coat was warm enough, Jean still found his body wracked with tremors as he gazed blankly at the East Egg across the bay. At the green lights and yellowish glow of human sorrow and failure.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, just _staring_. But some time later, he could hear light footsteps coming up from behind him. Then a familiar voice.

“Well, hello.”

Jean turned around to see Neil, arms wrapped around himself as if to trap warmth. He didn’t look very surprised or annoyed to see Jean sitting on _his_ pier, in _his_ beach. If anything, he looked almost relieved; it had been a few days since they’d last spoken.

Throat dry and voice cracked, Jean forced himself to say, “Sorry. Had a nightmare and I ended up here.”

“I get it.” Neil sat down next to him, reaching into his pockets and setting a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of whiskey between them on the dock. “Take one if you need to.”

“No, thank you.” The smoke would remind him too much of the bombs.

“That’s fine.” Surprisingly, Neil didn’t light up his own cigarette, only putting the pack away. Instead, he sat forward, dangling his feet over the water, uncapping the whiskey and taking a swig.

“You know,” he murmured, wiping the remnants of liquor off his lips, “after the war, whenever I couldn’t sleep, I would come out to the dock every night. The city’s nice at this time, isn’t it?”

Jean gazed at him, at the way the pink and orange glow of the New York lights illuminated Neil’s freckles and rose lashes. Looking at Neil was better than looking at the sea, where every time he blinked he swore he could see flashes of bloody froth.

He found himself asking, “Did you get nightmares too?”

Neil replied without hesitation. “Sometimes. But this is more of a habit I picked up from my mother. She liked to stargaze.”

“Oh.” Jean wrung his hands until the skin of his knuckles felt too raw to touch. Then he grabbed the whiskey between them, not drinking from it yet, just holding it. “Neil?”

“Mm?”

“Tell me a story.”

He didn’t care how childish he sounded just then, but he needed Neil’s siren song to drown out Adalie’s screams.

Neil regarded him carefully. “I’m not a good storyteller.”

“I don’t care.” Jean took a swig this time, shutting his eyes against the burn. Neil took to thinking, taking a long enough time that Jean was beginning to regret asking.

He leaned back so that he was lying flat against the pier, staring up at the cigarette smoke clouds.

Then, Neil spoke.

“I knew a soldier once. We fought together in the same unit. It was always the two of us, you know.” Jean couldn’t see Neil’s face, but he could imagine the sadness in those ocean eyes.

“What was his name?” Jean asked when Neil paused again.

“Andrew,” he said after a while. “His name was Andrew.”

“Was he killed?”

“No, not that I know of. I never did hear from him again after the war ended.” Neil’s shoulders slumped, his tone off. “He said something about posing as his brother during the drafts. Saw the war as an escape, kind of like me. Life abroad was preferable to life at home for him. And he didn’t want his brother to have to serve - they were twins, by the way. He told me as much.”

“You really heard nothing from him?” Jean asked when Neil fell silent again.

“No. I wrote to him many times, you know, after the war,” he replied, leaning back on his elbows and staring up at the stars, like he’d somehow find Andrew nestled safely among them. “He never wrote back, but then again, I didn’t even know if I had the right address. For all I know, some old hag could’ve gotten my letters.”

A humorless excuse of a laugh spilled from his mouth as he murmured, “I suppose he’s okay now. I _hope_ he is. We - he changed me, you know. He was different from the rest.” Bitterness cloaked his voice as he said, “Everyone here is just so _dull_.”

The silent  _without him_ was almost too loud.

He paused, and Jean could almost feel the grieving smile on his face.

“He was special. He had a perfect memory. He only needed to see something once to remember it. That’s what made him so useful on the battlefield, in those godforsaken trenches. We’d stay there for _days_ on end, just waiting. Somehow we got through it, him and I. While we were waiting for the artillery fire, he’d teach me all the different constellations he’d learned. He said he’d memorized them as a child, and he remembered them even then. So he taught them to me.”

A profound sadness settled in Neil’s eyes as he pointed up at the stars, fingers twitching like he was tracing Andrew’s constellations in his mind. It extinguished any brightness he had left, leaving him a hollow shell flickering in the wind. Jean suspected there was far more to the story than Neil was telling him, something far deeper than mere pain and remembrance. It was bone-deep anguish, so far down that to tear it out would be to destroy himself in the process.

It was a sadness Jean could understand, a sadness he didn’t want to force out of Neil’s mouth. The mere fact that he decided to tell it to Jean, because he _asked_ , was solace enough.

That was the thing about Neil: he was bright and hollow, and sad and great, terribly ironic and terribly _human_. Glowing like all the fireflies and ghosts he unwittingly trapped, glowing with delicately ravaged humanity. Enough so that Jean’s own stories began to take shape in his mouth, manifesting from the lonely graveyard he kept tucked right between his ribs.

“My sister was in France during the war,” he said quietly. “We used to pretend to go fishing off the coast of Marseille.”

“Marseille,” Neil echoed softly after a brief delay. “I’ve never been.”

“Before the war, it was so beautiful,” Jean murmured, thinking back to the white sand beaches and sapphire waters. “I don’t know what it looks like anymore.”

He wondered if the waters were stained a deeper crimson now, from all the blood spilt there.

“Your sister.” Neil glanced at him. He looked more distant now. “What was her name?”

“Adalie.” It tasted so bittersweet, so _awful_. With a painful jolt, Jean realized he hadn’t said her name out loud in years.

“Adalie Moreau,” Neil repeated, almost reverently.

“I didn’t get to write to her during the war at all,” Jean said quietly, throat tight. “I suppose it’s not my fault. Being in the navy kept me so busy. I couldn’t think about her much if I wanted to survive.”

“You can’t think of anything if you want to survive.”

“I didn’t know they’d attacked my town too. All I knew was that I’d come home from the war, and everything was gone.” Jean sighed shakily. “Everything and everyone. I had nothing else left, so when Kevin offered to take me in, I came here.”

Neil was quiet, something that Jean appreciated. He’d needed Neil to talk and to listen, not to comfort. Neither of them needed condolences or misplaced pity; they needed an equal exchange - one bitter, raw wound for another. Neil merely grabbed the whiskey bottle by the neck and took a large swig, before passing it Jean’s way again.

He took a long sip from it. Then he continued.

“I also had a friend in the navy. His name was Bastien,” Jean said. “He was one of the only people I befriended. He and I were in the same unit, and we stayed together all the way through the war. He’d been fighting a year longer than I had, so he was the one who taught me everything I knew.”

“Bastien. He survived, yes?”

“Not for long.” Jean shrugged, tapping his fingers against the glass bottle, which had already been warmed by Neil’s hands. His next words were as jagged as he felt. “He killed himself less than a year after the war ended. He shot himself in his family pool. His mother wrote to me about it.”

Something flickered in Neil’s expression, gone by so fast Jean could swear it was just a ghost passing through the two of them. Blinking once, then twice, Neil asked slowly, “Did he leave a note?”

“He didn’t leave anything,” Jean replied. “His mother thought it was because of the shell shock.”

“Poor fellow.”

“I never wrote back. I probably should.”

“The war doesn’t terrify me like it does for others,” Neil said languidly. “I don’t tell others that I fought in it. They just look at you differently, with that disgusting pity of theirs.”

“I know.”

“They look at me like I’m something that must be saved.” He scoffed at that, cheeks dimpling underneath a breathy smile. “But if and when I really do need to be saved, where will they be?”

Jean gazed at him steadily. In that moment, he swore the half-light changed Neil, peeled away his other masks, exposed just a hint of the wilting truth buried in his ribcage.

How disquieting it was, to be seen in such a brutal way.

“It’s a cruel world,” Jean ended up saying. He didn’t know what to tell someone so hopeless and so correct - hell, he didn’t even know what to tell himself.

But Neil only fixed him with a haunting stare, one so full of melancholia that Jean suspected even the best, most experienced sailor would have drowned in his ocean irises.

“It’s not the world that’s cruel,” he murmured sagely. “It’s the people in it.”

Silence fell over them. Over their heads, a plane whirred steadily through the sky.

_The truth was a gunshot. You had nothing to say after it was fired; you could only sit there in the silence, and hope that the shooter would be kind enough to let you stay._

Eventually, Neil reanimated with a tired sigh. He looked over at Jean with a weary smile. “It’s been a while,” he said softly. “You’d better head back now.”

“We can stay here longer,” Jean protested halfheartedly. He wasn’t at peace yet entirely, but the worst memories of his nightmare had faded, and the numbness didn’t consume his body anymore.

“No, I think I should head inside too.” Neil stood up, whiskey in his hand. Jean followed his movements. “Thank you, Jean.”

For what, he didn’t know.

“When will I see you next?” The question was stupid and pointless, but Neil indulged him in an answer nonetheless.

“Tomorrow, if you want.”

“Tomorrow, then.” Jean almost reached out to touch Neil’s hand. It felt almost right. “Good night, Neil. And thank _you_.”

He was about to turn around to go home when Neil’s voice rang out again.

“Do you think you’ll ever go back?” he asked. “To Marseille.”

The latent memory of his hometown tugged against Jean’s chest harshly. He _almost_ longed to walk the familiar roads and neighborhoods again, to go down to the very beach he and Adalie used to play at and just watch the waves wash up against the sand.

But then there’d be new families there. New kids, who weren’t his little sister. And new homes, built out of the ash and rubble of the war.

He met Neil’s gaze, gently curious.

“I don’t think so,” he murmured. A sad smile curved at Neil’s lips as he tilted his head to the side.

“Maybe it won’t be so different,” he offered. “There’s this proverb Allison taught me: _plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose._ ”

It took a moment for Jean to understand his words - and when he did, he felt a smile of his own, tentative and melancholy, twitch at his lips.

“Maybe,” he said quietly.

Neil’s eyes glowed as he nodded. “Good night, Jean.”

He eventually returned home, only to be greeted with Kevin’s familiar snoring. He supposed he was lucky his friend was such a heavy sleeper.

Jean took off his coat and turned on the lamp before crawling into his own bed. He curled into himself, wrapping his arms around his middle and closing his eyes tightly.

_The truth was a gunshot. After it was fired, it was all you could ever hear._

He was afraid to fall asleep again, but exhaustion won the battle like it always did. He eventually drifted away under to the memory of Neil’s soft, siren-song voice, and all the cruelest truths he managed to speak so beautifully.


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> neil invites jean to come with him upstate, and they meet his uncle.
> 
>  **warnings** : brief, implied panic attack near the end of chapter

Neil was beginning to keep his lights on longer.

Jean would often stop by to talk to him, to smoke or drink on the balcony while watching the people roam about below. Sometimes if it got late enough, Neil would point to the sky and start listing off the constellations Andrew had taught him.

He still got that haunted look on his face whenever he talked about the soldier: a keen sense of loss that came from turning around and suddenly finding that, while he wasn’t looking, the world somehow had one less person in it.

But those times with Neil were the closest to peace Jean had felt since the war’s end. They were the closest to seasonal changes he had felt lately - like the hyacinths and orchids in his chest were beginning to blossom for spring, breaking apart the cold grip of winter.

He didn’t know when they’d gone from strangers to close friends, only that it was a quick and quiet transition, one he didn’t mind at all.

It was nearing the middle of August when the rainstorm broke.

Kevin had started his new job with Jeremy, which he enjoyed _much_ more than selling bonds, leaving Jean to sit alone on the porch. Except Neil had joined him some time later, the way he usually did now. He would drift by Jean’s porch, most often in the summer evenings right before the first guests started arriving for his parties, to talk about anything: universes and dust motes, life and death, corruption and niceness. They discussed everything, anything, and nothing, smoke spilling from their lips not unlike the truths they divulged.

The day the rainstorm broke, however, Jean noticed Neil was - different. The slightest movement of a shadow made him flinch, and his eyes moved about like he was calculating every possible way he could escape if needed.

“What’s wrong?” Jean asked as the first clap of thunder sounded. Neil barely held back a jump at the noise, plastering on a shaky smile a few moments too late.

“Nothing,” his friend reassured him. “I’m fine.”

Jean knew better; Neil never talked in a tone so bleak. But prying was dangerous (he knew this personally), so he closed his mouth and offered instead, “Do you want tea?”

“Not now. Thank you.” Neil began to wring his hands, though he didn’t seem to notice.

Having nothing else to offer, Jean glanced back around at the empty streets, slick with the storm. Only a madman would dare to come outside in weather like this, he decided, especially in the West Egg.

Eventually Neil began to fidget, tapping his polished shoe anxiously against the porch. Jumping up at the next clap of thunder, he suddenly declared, “I need to go somewhere. Go for a run, or something.”

“I don’t think now would be the best time,” Jean pointed out. Neil didn’t seem deterred, his eyes more shadowed than ever as he teetered on the edge of the stairs.

“I have to go, Jean. I can’t stay here.” There was the desperation of a wild animal in his voice.

“Is something wrong?”

His shoulders shook in a hollow laugh. “It’s nothing. I told you, I’m fine.”

“Neil.”

He turned around, his smile lopsided as he plastered it back on. “I’m just a little stressed, Jean. I need to do something. I can’t sit still right now.”

Words and questions pressed against Jean’s tongue, but one look at Neil’s fractured face shut them all down. He only nodded silently.

“As long as you come back.”

Anguish split through Neil’s face just then. It was as if Jean had just chained him to the ground, shackled his ankles and shoved him inside a gilded cage. But then the look quickly passed into some false sort of serenity.

“Alright,” he said slowly. “I promise.”

“Watch out for cars,” Jean called out uselessly as he began to make his way off the porch. Neil gave no sign of hearing him, arms wrapped tightly around himself as the rain immediately began to darken his hair. Jean stared after him until he disappeared down the fuzzy street.

Under the wealth, under the splendor, under the three-piece, Neil was indeed just as flighty of an animal as anyone else. After all, they were both broken, bent out of shape, skeletons with bones that never knitted just right. They were both running from _something_.

That wasn’t new.

What _was_ new and wrong was Jean’s sudden desire to fix whatever was plaguing his friend, to play the foolish but well-meaning doctor and eradicate whatever invisible pain haunted Neil’s heart.

(But he couldn’t expect to right Neil’s bones properly if his own ribs were smashed out of shape).

In his experience, there was no way to fix a person without breaking them first. To get a bullet out, you have to dig deeper. To recover a garden, you must uproot everything.

And it would hurt. _Oh_ , it would hurt like all of _hell_ had just broken loose inside of you.

But it was the only way Jean knew.

He didn’t want to hurt Neil, but he wanted to do _something._  It was horribly selfish of him, to want to fix someone else’s mess with his own bleeding hands.

Yet at the same time, it was so terribly human of him, so _faulty_ , that he nearly recoiled from the force of it.

Jean didn’t know how much time had passed while he was lost in his head, until Neil’s voice pierced through the veil of his thoughts.

“Come upstate with me?”

His voice was so sudden that Jean nearly jumped out of his skin. Sometime, Neil had returned. Rain slid off his skin, plastering his previously styled curls to his forehead. He was soaked to the bone, his coat and shirt drenched and sticking to his body. Admittedly he looked better than before, the anguished anxiety from before extinguished like a flame by the downpour, replaced with that same calm mesmerism that he always had. His chest rose and fell in time with his breaths, quicker than usual, probably from the run he took to get back.

“Jean?”

(He really needed to stop losing himself).

“Yes,” he said belatedly. “Yes. Why?”

“I need to visit someone and I’d like you to come with me.” Neil tilted his head to the side. Jean noticed he was shivering. “It’ll be too lonely if I go by myself.”

Jean stood up, reaching out and motioning for him to come close. “Please just come inside first. You’ll get sick.”

He sat Neil down in front of their fireplace and turned on the radio, before heading into the kitchen and brewing some tea. The sound of the rain cascading upon the windows and the flickering warmth of the living room was oddly comforting, a hazy flicker of home. It reminded him of when he would wait out rainstorms back in France, while Adalie played with her dolls on the floor of the kitchen.

Some of the tension in Jean’s shoulder involuntarily slipped away, leaving behind a hollow ache.

Pouring the tea into two mugs when it was ready, he headed back into the living room. Neil had closed his eyes, but they fluttered open when Jean approached. He accepted the tea with a shaky smile, letting the cup warm his quivering hands while Jean sat down across from him.

“Who’re you visiting?” he decided to ask once Neil had taken a long sip of the tea. His shoulders sagged with a heavy sigh.

“My uncle,” he said after some time just staring at the clock. “He came all the way from London to visit the states.”

“London,” Jean echoed.

“Some sort of millionaire business he’s on.” Neil shrugged, before tipping his head back and closing his eyes again. He looked feverish in the dim living room glow. “He doesn’t...usually come to the states. But whenever he does, he wants me to join him, partly so he can visit me, partly so I can help out with errands.”

“What’s his name?”

At that, Neil blinked open his eyes. He glanced at Jean almost apprehensively, before the strange expression slipped away, and his face went slack. “Stuart.”

“He sounds nice,” Jean said meaninglessly.

A breath of laughter floated from Neil’s parted lips as he slowly finished Jean’s tea. He sat back, angling his body so that he could face him completely. “So?” he asked. “Will you come with me?”

“Okay,” Jean said, without a second thought.

Neil was inevitably becoming second-nature to him. And he felt that Neil knew that. The smile on his face was more genuine that time as he looked away.

“This tea is good,” he commented. “What is it?”

“Earl grey with some honey,” Jean said, before adding on a whim, “and maybe a little bourbon.”

“Of course,” Neil said easily, holding the empty cup close to his chest like it’d warm him to the core. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

( _Thank you for coming. Thank you for surviving. Thank you for killing him before he could kill me._ Those were the things Jean was used to being thanked for).

((But then Neil had that uncanny audacity to shrug in the face of grim reality and grin with his teeth)).

His voice was soft, _almost_ delicate. “Just wanted to say it.”

Jean looked away, sipping at his tea. He tugged his legs up to his chest - a bit of an awkward position considering his height - and let the steam warm up his face.

“Mind if I ask you something?” Neil murmured.

Jean shook his head.

“Your tattoo. What does it mean?”

He faltered mid-sip, before lowering his cup. Neil’s question wasn’t rude or unwarranted; Jean supposed he was surprised his friend hadn’t asked him earlier. He waited for the inevitable disgust to fill up his stomach, for the regret and the guilt and everything the war had ever tainted for him to well up inside his chest. The mere thought of his own division number, marking and haunting him forever, should’ve been off-putting.

But something about Neil just drew the truth out of him. As honest and as simply brutal as it was.

“It was my former division number,” he answered without looking at his friend. “I was in the Third Division.”

Neil’s gentle curiosity quickly fell away into somber understanding. He set down his mug as well, tilting his chin up as he observed Jean.

“It’s nice,” he finally said.

A broken scoff rose from his throat. “It’s just a number.”

“Yeah. Exactly.” After a brief moment of hesitation, Neil held up his hand. His ring glinted softly in the light.

“My mother’s ring,” he explained when Jean finally looked up at him.

“Wedding?”

Neil smiled wryly. “Like I’d ever.”

They sat for the rest of the washed-out afternoon listening to the radio in silence.

 

\--

 

Jean left a note for Kevin on the counter saying he’d be in upstate New York with Neil. As soon as the rain let up just slightly, Neil took him next door, his touch feverishly hot against Jean’s wrist. But Allison stopped them before Neil could have Jean get inside the car.

“Where are you going?” she asked, though the glint in her eye told Jean that she knew exactly where Neil was going.

“New York,” his friend replied. The whiteness of his knuckles on the door handle betrayed his tenseness. Allison tilted her head to the side so that she could glance at Jean.

“Why’s he going?”

“Allison, I told you to stop.”

“Really, Neil? It’s part of my _job_.”

He cast Jean another furtive glance, before stepping close to the young woman.

“I know,” he murmured, “but I think I’ve proven enough by now that I can take care of myself. You don’t need to concern yourself with me all the time.”

“I think you take _shit_ care of yourself.”

“Didn’t ask.”

“Neil, I’ve seen you - ”

While they bickered, Jean slowly slid into the passenger side. He fiddled with his cuffs while Neil and Allison spoke for a while longer, before the door opened and slammed shut promptly as his friend settled in the driver’s seat.

“You alright?” Jean dared to ask when Neil just stared at the steering wheel for a while.

“Yes. Just a disagreement of opinions.” Then he revved the engine and jerkily pulled out of the driveway, reaching into his pockets and tossing his pack of cigarettes at Jean. “Here. Take one.”

He shook one out without question, leaning over to let Neil ignite the end. Then he stared out the open window at the rushing streets, watching as the sky passed into blood and tangerine overhead.

By the time they finally arrived at the place, his friend seemed to have calmed down. He plucked Jean’s cigarette out from his fingers as they crossed the street, ignoring Jean’s unamused look as he took a drag from it. A tiny smirk tugged at his lips when their eyes met.

“This - it’s even bigger than yours,” Jean remarked as they approached the grand entrance of the mansion in question. Neil only huffed in amusement.

“Stuart is a humble man,” he said, shrugging.

The entire interior was illuminated in blinding light. Every inch of the floor, covered in businessmen and other millionaires, teemed with boredom. The air felt sullen as Neil led Jean through the main hall, as if any life had been doused underneath the cloying call of money and power. There was less crazed dancing, less champagne being forced into any available hand, and less conversation - more distance, more isolation, more _danger_.

The place was gorgeous, though, he had to admit it. Everywhere he looked, there were crystals and diamonds, the cabinets ornately decorated with intricate swirls and patterns. Photographs covered the walls from end to end, black-and-whites of strangers’ faces smiling down upon Jean as he passed by. And perhaps behind all the luxury and beauty of the house there was history, hidden deep within the basement and tucked up inside the ceiling.

They arrived at the bar inside what perhaps looked like a magnificent ballroom. People weren’t dancing, but they milled about, talking about nothing over shallow sips of white wine. Jean tugged his gaze away from one older couple who were standing alone together by the wall to where Neil was already watching him.

“Shame. Your uncle must not know how to throw parties,” Jean said. Neil smiled wryly at him, before turning around and ordering two glasses of whiskey.

“He’d be truly flattered,” he said once he got the drinks, pushing one toward Jean.

“You said you needed to meet him,” Jean said. “Where is he?”

“He’s usually in his office, I - ”

Before he could finish his thought, a tall man in a black suit interrupted them. The stranger set a hand on Neil’s elbow, who jerked slightly at his touch. Jean moved to stand, but the man shot him a warning look.

“Mr. Josten, I’m happy to have found you,” the man said, still glaring at Jean. “I wish it was under better circumstances, but we must speak with you now.”

“It’s alright.” Neil sounded subdued as he subtly pulled his arm from the man’s grip. He cast an apologetic glance at Jean. “I may be a while, but help yourself to anything. I’ll find you when I’m done.”

Warily, Jean glanced between him and the man. He certainly looked like a threat, but Neil merely looked more resigned than anything.

So he said instead, “Okay. Come back for me.”

It sounded almost childishly desperate, but Neil nodded in earnest.

“Always.”

Jean busied himself with a couple cigarettes as the man pulled Neil away, leaning against the stool even as the bartender eyed him disdainfully. Without his friend there, or anyone else he knew, Jean was a buoy that had been washed on land: displaced.

He had to move away from the bar after a while, after the bartender there gave him one too many dirty looks and half-filled glasses. Keeping to the edge of the room, Jean surveyed his surroundings and leaned against the wall.

He contemplated asking for a phone to call Renee. She’d been busy with her church meetings and renovations the last time they’d talked, and Jeremy too had been busy with the new adjustments to his hotel staff - the adjustments being Kevin’s poor attitude. Then he looked around and decided perhaps everyone would be too uptight for a casual phone call, and settled for sagging against the wall and waiting for Neil.

One lady sauntered up to him, half-drunk, and leaned in a little too close. “What’re you doing here alone?” she asked. Jean eyed her carefully, noting the too-sharp gleam in her eyes as she batted her lashes.

“I’m with a friend,” he said. The lady raised her fine eyebrows, before lurching back.

“Don’t know why you’d come to a place like this,” she muttered. “It’s absolutely miserable here.”

“Oh.”

Smiling coyly, she nodded. “Absolutely tragic, this family.”

She left before Jean could say anything else. He fell back against the wall, pursing his lips, and silently contemplated grabbing another drink.

Some indeterminable amount of time later, his friend finally returned. Face haggard-looking and pale, Neil straightened up when Jean approached him. His smile was false but the tense slope of his shoulders was real; the way his fingers trembled slightly when he reached up to brush a piece of imaginary dust off Jean’s shoulder was real.

“You...what happened?” Neil shrugged Jean’s question off.

“I’m fine. I just need a drink.”

Of course it was a lie. But Jean followed him back to the bar, watching as Neil ordered two drinks for himself and downed them all at once. A few more glasses later, Neil stopped, resting his forehead in his hands as another bartender cleared the surface around him. After another ten minutes, he finally pushed himself up and peered at Jean with hooded eyelids.

“Hello,” he said, like he’d forgotten Jean was there at all. “Sorry. Come upstairs with me? There’s less people.” He flapped his hand about as he pushed himself out of the stool, stumbling enough that Jean had to steady him. “Too much noise, right? You said that.”

“Right.” Jean carefully guided Neil up the stairs without hovering too much. His friend’s wits seemed simultaneously sharper and duller as he smiled widely at him.

“Thank you for coming with me,” he said once they’d settled on an emptier room close to the large balcony. They sat down on the long couches there, the cushions made of soft velvet. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Jean didn’t know what to say - Neil had a way of sneaking up on him and disarming him without even touching him. He handed Neil another cigarette instead, leaning forward so he could light it for him.

“Mm. Allison won’t like this,” his friend muttered around the stick, rubbing his temples. “She hates it when I get drunk.”

Hearing Allison’s name, slurred and rounded around the edges, triggered a new thought in Jean’s mind.

“You know, Kevin once told me that he thought you and Reynolds were seeing each other before,” he said. “He didn’t know for certain, though. Didn’t say he believed in any of that.”

Neil scoffed. “Why would _anyone_ think I have feelings for Reynolds?” he demanded.

Truthfully, Jean didn’t know why he brought it up. But he knew that the golden light turned Neil’s eyes into ghostly amber hollows. Thin wisps of smoke trailed upward from his rosy lips, and he looked like some ethereal painting just then.  

He took another tortured drag from his cigarette, cherry glowing bright red between slender fingers, before leaning back and closing his eyes.

“Everyone is just so _stupid_ ,” his friend suddenly lamented. “Allison and I? We would never work.”

“People like to pry,” Jean pointed out. “Everybody wants to know more about you, the man behind the parties and the castle. It’s what the people are hungry for.”

“It’s truly dreadful, Jean.” Neil tilted his head back, exposing his pale skin to the light. “Sometimes I wish I wasn’t born.”

“You’re a fool then,” Jean replied quietly, because he kept not knowing what else to say. A half-moon smile crossed Neil’s face, his cheeks dimpling just slightly.

“Mm. What could be so interesting about me?” he wondered out loud. “We’re good friends, aren’t we? Why won’t you tell me?”

Obviously Neil didn’t know anything about himself, then. A millionaire born from ashes; a hollow man who sheltered the world, cruel as it was, inside his rib cage; a broken man with blue orchids and lost oceans as eyes. He held the universe in his hands, yet he acted like his cigarettes were the most sacred things he’d ever touched. A voice of money, of all the unknown memories and forgotten whispers in city corridors. A constellation that dappled his pale skin, glowing like embers in the orchestrated light.

Words rested on Jean’s tongue like poison, waiting to be spoken. But they stumbled and fell, faded out bitterly, lost to waves of hesitance and nostalgia - forever unknown to anyone but himself. A vaguely regretful ache settled in his bones.

Neil turned his piercing gaze in Jean’s direction, lips quirking up again. “Allison would just tell me I’m stupid. Kevin just wouldn’t care. So perhaps you should tell me about myself, Jean.”

“You cannot teach a blind person how to see,” he replied.

Inhale, exhale. Smoke engulfed the air between them. “Speaking in riddles now, Moreau? I don’t think I understand.”

“You are a conundrum,” Jean concluded as Neil tilted his head back expectantly. “That’s what you are.”

“That’s the first time I’ve heard that.” Warmed with amusement, he smiled again: brief and tragic. “I really do appreciate you, you know.”

“I _don’t_ know.”

“The honesty is new. I think I like it better. People just lie too much these days.” Suddenly, Neil stood up, crushing his cigarette out in the ashtray. “Would you like to see something?”

“See what?”

“Anything. I’m sick of this place.”

“Doesn’t your uncle want you to stay here?” Neil shrugged Jean’s question off as he tugged on his coat, running a hand through his auburn curls.

“He can find me himself, if he really wants to. Let’s go to the garden. Jean, let’s go to the garden.”

“Alright.” He stood up just as Neil began walking briskly outside, shouldering past all the other guests and occasionally bumping into someone roughly. “Neil, slow down!”

He nearly lost his friend to the crowd downstairs, but he managed to push his way through them. They practically burst out into the garden, ducking past the local orchestra and heading into the half-privacy of the neatly trimmed hedges.

Jean let Neil lead him through the bushes, content to watch the way their wet soles left imprints against the cobblestone pathway. Somewhere along the line, Neil grabbed on to Jean’s wrist, fingers brushing against his, as he led him onward.

Eventually, his friend began to talk. Maybe the alcohol had loosened his lips, or he was just feeling particularly truthful that night.

“Stuart - he’s a character,” he was saying. Somehow he didn’t slur his words. “He runs a business, you see. Not bootlegging, but he got _filthy_ rich off it. But he’s not like the others here in the states. He’s not - he’s not _ruined_. He’s not corrupted. But at the same time he’s - okay, maybe a little. But not as much.

“I told you he took me in. He made Allison watch over me, he’s paranoid like that. He - he’s _very_ protective. Allison, too. He doesn’t want to lose me like he lost - he lost his sister.” Neil swallowed harshly at that, frowning. “I don’t know.”

“That’s okay,” Jean murmured reverently.

Fumbling over his words, Neil eventually just gave up. He stopped walking once they arrived at a quiet clearing, completely isolated, and turned around to face Jean. There, they had a perfect view of the stars, scattered but shining nonetheless. The half moon lit up the entire bay.

“Orion,” Neil said suddenly, breaking the silence. He pointed at the sky where the clouds had just parted. “The first one Andrew taught me.”

“Orion,” Jean repeated.

The same thing went on for a while, with Neil naming different constellations, sometimes repeating the ones he’d already showed Jean, while Jean nodded and listened along. He was content to just listen to the mere sound of Neil’s voice, after all.

“Name me another constellation,” he breathed once they settled into silence again, after Neil ran out of ones to point out. Starlight illuminated his entire face, down to every freckle and scar. Jean couldn’t help but feel a tiny opening of wonder inside his ashen chest, a stutter in his breath as he took in the man in front of him.

And then a moonshine smile twitched at Neil’s lips, and he pointed to a different part of the night sky, one where only a few stars were scattered about. He was close enough that Jean could smell the cigarette smoke and whiskey on his breath.

“Jean Moreau,” he whispered, “that is you.”

 

He followed Neil’s gaze up to the sky, where the tiny clusters of stars sat in a dusty corner. And something in his heart clenched and broke, left him breathless and dizzy and _wrong_.

Because that was where he shouldn’t have belonged. Not in the stars, not in the world, but in the sea - he’d been made to die in battle, to sink to the bottom of the sea where he was _supposed_ to be.

But Neil had named him a constellation, _made_ him a constellation, had the audacity to claim him something he had no right to lay a hand on. He scratched Jean’s name into the universe for him, a message: _look at this soldier_.

Maybe he could be more than numbness and failed coping mechanisms. Maybe he could be more than a hollow body -

Maybe he could be made of starlight and pieces of scattered universes and maybe, _maybe_ , he could shine on his own. And the melancholy glow would fade away, and a better, brighter light would manifest in return.

Jean didn’t know how to heal. There were no instructions, no set rules to follow. It was all nonlinear, climbing a mountain only to fall back down and split his head open on the bottom. But maybe if the universe knew his name, Jean wouldn’t be so lost after all.

( _Hope_ , he dared to call it).

He blinked and met Neil’s steady gaze, his eyes unusually sharp in the darkness. Jean looked down at his lips, where moonlight poured over the curves of his mouth and turned rose into enchanting silver. Something turned in his stomach, and Jean had the distinct feeling that if the ground beneath them gave out just then, he wouldn’t feel a thing -

Because he was already  _falling_.

And he thought he’d known what it meant to fall and break at the landing - for it wasn’t the actual drop that killed you, but the ground rushing up to kiss your teeth and skull - but the cautious curiosity in Neil’s eyes blocked out everything else.

He blinked again, breath shaking, and they were almost too close. If embers caught between them, they would both erupt into flames. Jean was sure his friend could feel the way his heart drummed desperately against his ribcage, the way his breaths kept getting caught on his teeth like skin on barbed wire.

His eyes flickered down to Neil’s lips again, and they were nearly touching, when -

His friend stumbled jerkily away from him, and the moment snapped.

“Neil?” Jean asked, his voice too hoarse and shaky to sound normal.

“Sorry.” Wrapping his arms around himself like he was cold, Neil hunched over as his shoulders trembled slightly. Concern unexpectedly wrapped its cold fingers around Jean’s heart as he took a careful step forward, as Neil put a hand over his mouth as if to smother himself and exhaled shortly.

Several minutes passed, where all Jean could hear was Neil’s breaths stumbling over each other, before either of them said anything.

(He didn’t know what had happened. Maybe he’d overstepped - but he didn’t even know what he’d been planning on doing. For a moment, it felt like all his inhibitions had been stripped away again, and he was just a little boy again - without the trauma of war chasing him or the weight of numbed grief breaking his shoulders. And he was young and he was free, like he was _supposed to be_ ).

((One step forward, two steps back. Always)).

“Neil?” he asked again quietly while his friend finally dropped his hand from his mouth. “Are you alright?”

A thick, heavy silence ensued, before Neil inhaled softly and turned around. He avoided Jean’s gaze as he murmured, “Sorry. I’m fine. I - ” Shuddering slightly, he waved his hand in the direction of the rest of the party. “We should probably go home.”

“Okay.” He wanted to ask him, _what happened_? _Did I do something wrong_? But Neil looked like he’d seen a ghost, so he only kept his mouth shut and followed his friend on his way back to the gathering.

They were halfway through the house, when a man surrounded on either side by two rough-looking guards stopped them. Jean paused while Neil’s shoulders sagged. He took in the man’s hardened face, the neatly cropped hair with streaks of gray at the roots. The dark suit that fit his lean frame, the veins on his hands as he gestured for the guards to stand back.

“Neil,” he said, a distinct accent to his voice. He looked like he wanted to say something else, before frowning and looking closer. “Neil, have you been drinking?”

“Oh, shut up,” Neil snapped all of a sudden. He gestured toward Jean. “This is my friend Jean. We’re going home, alright?”

“ _You’re_ Jean Moreau.” Contempt seemed to ice his voice over as the man peered at him.

Neil glanced between the two of them, and Jean thought he looked broken just then.

“Where are my manners?” he muttered with faux nonchalance, his anger from earlier suddenly sputtering out, leaving behind only exhaustion. “Jean, this is my Uncle Stuart.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Jean forced himself to say when both men turned to look at him. Stuart looked like he was barely holding back a scoff as he turned toward his nephew again.

“You stay with Allison until I tell you otherwise, okay?” he said gruffly. “And _don’t_ drink anymore tonight.”

Neil waved his uncle off and headed for the entrance without waiting for Jean to follow.

They didn’t look or speak to each other as they each got into the car. Pulling out of the crowded driveway, Jean raced down the bridge and highway as quickly as he could.

Half an hour later they were back in the West Egg. His friend left, muttering a quiet, “Thank you,” and shut his front door gently behind him. Jean only stayed to pull Neil’s car into the driveway and hand a waiting Matt the keys. The butler gave him a tight smile and a “good night” before following Neil inside.

Disoriented and confused, Jean left through the garden, walking slowly and trailing his fingertips through the freshly cut rose bushes. A few thorns snagged against his skin, never digging in deep enough to make him bleed.

Before he could return to his own home, he paused. He dared to look over his shoulder once more - and found that Neil’s lights had gone out.


	5. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jean has some revelations regarding neil and himself. they find themselves on the pier once again.
> 
>  **warnings** : discussions of trauma

It had been a few days since Neil had taken him to New York, since the last time they’d spoken. Jean had tried to call him, only for the call to be dropped a few short moments later. He was left staring at the dull phone, unnameable emotions clashing inside his chest as he set it back on the hook.

He really didn’t know what happened. Only that Neil’s absence hurt more than it should have, that the confusion in his head was rapidly beginning to turn into fear - because _somehow_ , he didn’t know where, he’d latched on to Neil, mystery and cracks and all, and now he couldn’t let go.

Jean rationed out his emotions very, _very_ carefully, the way a miser handled money. His heart wasn’t vibrant or lovely - it was gory and broken and fleshy. His emotions weren’t soaring mountains or valleys, but plateaus upon plateaus of failed stops-and-starts, fragmented pieces of hope lying in his chest like the pieces of precious glass a child like Adalie would collect at a beach.

He didn’t have very much left for himself, yet he still somehow managed to make room among the rubble and ashes for others.

He clung on to the people he had left with fraying fingers and aching desperation - because he _knew_ how quickly the world could take them away. Eat them up, spit them back out, until their mangled bodies were the only memories Jean had left of them. He’d hold on to them because they were the only people he trusted, the only people he had left - because who knew when the next war might start?

His past, he kept it tucked in between his ribs: an empty, flowerless garden of cold bodies. Because perhaps recovery meant forgetting. And because letting the ghosts die would be to let Adalie or Bastien or _everyone else_ die a second time.

Jean refused to let it happen. He was too terrified of it.

But with Neil, he found himself unfurling. Getting hopelessly _attached_. Imagining a life that he could really _live_ in again.

And it was terrifying, to _want_ someone, to _like_ someone after what attachments had done to him in the past. But to be found, to be believed in, to be _understood_ \- it was an intoxicating rush to the head that Jean had quickly grown addicted to.

He didn’t want to think about going back to the way he was before - however small or huge the difference was.

He still didn’t know why Neil had acted the way he did that night, but Jean couldn’t help but blame himself for the jagged want that pierced through his stomach whenever he remembered Neil’s face, his rosy lips, parted mid-breath.

He moved slowly, his limbs aching slightly from being in the same position for so long, and glanced up at the living room clock. With a jolt, he realized was supposed to have been ready ten minutes ago. Kevin would be home any moment now to take them up to Renee and Jeremy’s for dinner again.

Jean stood up and dumped the cold tea he’d forgotten he was supposed to drink out of his mug in the kitchen. The front door swung open just as he hooked his coat over his arm and headed out of the kitchen.  

“Hey,” Kevin greeted him. “You ready?”

Jean didn’t say anything, only following him out to the driveway and getting into the still-running car.

As Kevin started the car, Jean risked a reluctant glance toward Neil’s mansion. His friend glanced at him curiously but didn’t say anything, peeling away from the driveway. Jean closed his eyes and struggled to forget the way Neil had looked under the light of the old moon and unnamed constellations.

 

\--

 

Renee’s smile was warm when she greeted them.

“Jean, I’m so happy you came,” she said. “Jeremy’s inside making some calls, but the sunset’s beautiful this evening.”

Jean took the silent invitation to follow her through the airy living room to their balcony, Kevin going off to join Jeremy. Renee, dressed in a flowing dress of light yellow silk, leaned against the balcony and rested her chin in her hands. Light bathed the other side of the bay in pure gold as Jean joined her.

“How have you been feeling?” she asked pleasantly after a few minutes of silence. Jean shifted as a balmy breeze ruffled his hair, lowering his gaze to the honey-colored waters beneath their feet. 

“A little and a lot,” he said quietly. The only sign Renee was surprised at all by his truthfulness was her slow blink, before she collected herself with a privately pleased smile.

“Well, it’s better than nothing, isn’t it?” Tapping her blunt nails against the railing, she exhaled slowly. “The church is nearly finished renovating, so I have a lot more free time on my hands soon.”

“When is it done?” Jean decided to ask, because talking to Renee would always be easier than talking about himself.

“In only a few more days, I believe,” she said, before glancing at him. “You should come visit.”

“I’m not religious.”

“I know.” Renee shrugged lightly. “It’s just very beautiful, and I think you deserve to see beautiful things.”

At her words, he looked away, wringing his hands. He’d always had rather knobbly fingers with calloused tips and palms. Now the scars running across his skin roughened them even more.

Renee rested her hands over his.

“Jean, you know I’ll keep telling you as long as you still don’t believe me,” she reminded him softly.

He knew. It was one of the only things he knew well. But knowing and understanding were two completely different things.

Mercifully, Renee didn’t press him for an answer, only retreating and inviting him back inside for dinner. She was special that way; she knew when to start, when to keep going, and _especially_ when to stop.

Jean stayed silent throughout the entire meal, picking at his food while his friends’ conversations washed over him. Their voices only served to fill in the buzzing emptiness in his bones. Occasionally Jeremy’s bright laughter and Kevin’s reciprocating chuckle would bring him back to the present, only for him to lose time again right after. By the time everyone else had moved on to drinks and gentle gossip, he excused himself to go back outside under Renee’s curious gaze.

When he pushed open the doors again, the sun had already completely set, and the sky and sea had melded into one. Jean leaned against the railing, the wood pressing into his ribs. The West Egg was alight with green and white lights across the bay, and Jean craned his neck to look for the familiar castle among them.

He couldn’t find it in the sea of fallen stars.

Plates clattered as Renee and Jeremy’s butlers cleaned the table. He could the door creaking open and then closing again, shutting out the sound of Kevin and Jeremy’s intertwining voices. Jean turned around to see Renee standing there again. She’d donned Jeremy’s coat in the meantime, which fit her surprisingly well.

“Will you two be heading home soon?” she asked.

“Probably.”

“Thank you for coming, you know,” she said. “I know having dinners all the time can get boring. Maybe we can head into the city again next time.”

“Sure,” he murmured.

Renee smiled sweetly. “Have you talked to Neil lately?”

“No.” Jean looked away, clenching his fists around the railing at the mention of his friend’s name. “Why?”

“I’m just asking because Allison asked,” she said. “She knows I talk to you a lot, and just wanted to know because Neil is ignoring her.”

Jean turned back around in the direction of the West Egg, fingers aching from how tightly he was clutching the railing. He closed his eyes, bit harshly on the inside of his lip when Neil’s piercing eyes flashed through his memory again.

“I haven’t seen him in a few days,” he said, just as the door opened again and Kevin stuck his head through.

“Jean, we’re heading home,” his friend announced.

“Right.”

Renee reached out and gave Jean a quick and loose hug. Then she did the same with Kevin. “Drive safely, boys.”

“I know, I know.” Kevin glanced at Jean. “I didn’t drink this time.”

“That’s wonderful,” Renee said when Jean didn’t say anything else. She knew as well as Jean did about Kevin’s drinking habits.

“So I can drive. Come on.” His friend backed into the sanctuary of the house, leaving the door ajar. Renee turned back to Jean, linking her arm through his.

“Think about what I said, okay?” she asked, patting his wrist gently. “You’re always welcome to visit.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Jean nodded, throat tight, and she grinned while squeezing his arm.

“I’ll see you soon, Jean.”

Neither of them said a word on the drive back. As Kevin parked their car in the driveway and headed off to his bedroom with a mumbled goodbye, Jean stayed behind to stare at the castle beside them. None of the lights were on. Even when awash in moonlight, the house looked far too eerie.

Jean found himself absently heading in the direction of Neil’s elaborate backyard, almost on muscle memory. He let his feet take him to the very back, to the stretch of beach that Neil owned. All the while, the emptiness in his chest just kept growing and growing, swelling like a tidal wave until it threatened to drag him under with the sheer force of it.

The East Egg flickered brightly across the bay, though a few of the lights were beginning to go out as the night wore on. Jean shivered, even though he wasn’t cold, and looked around helplessly.

The moonlight shifted, and the shadows danced. Jean glanced up and over at the pier, and it was there that he saw a lone figure sitting at the very end of it.

(The wave of déjà vu was almost crippling: a lonely, sleepless night, seeing the nameless man at the end of the pier with smoke rising from his lips like a cluster of airless dreams. Another interrupted night, sitting at the edge of the water with a _friend_ that time, trying in vain to catch the stars in scarred and weathered palms).

Something reached inside Jean and switched everything off - the numbness, the worry, the fear. It left behind only some warm, misplaced sense of relief. He began to head toward Neil, keeping his footsteps light but just loud enough to alert the man of his presence.

His friend didn’t turn when Jean sat down next to him, only breaking his cigarette in half and distantly watching the ashes flutter over the water.

“I’m sorry.” Jean didn’t know what had possessed him to say it, but it was enough to catch Neil’s attention. His friend glanced over, face cautiously blank.

“Do you know what you’re apologizing for?” he countered instead of accepting it.

Jean opened his mouth, but no words came up. “No,” he admitted after a few long moments passed.

Neil shrugged, a ghost of his old smile twitching on his lips, before turning his hazy gaze back to the blackened waters. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Jean.”

“But I do, don’t I?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Neil said, but Jean could see the tenseness in his body as he rocked back, tugging a knee up to his chest.

“I thought I did something wrong.” He hesitated, before adding, “You weren’t talking to me.”

“I know.” His friend fiddled with the hem of his sweater, before his shoulders shook with an empty laugh. “I was scared, you know.”

“Of what?”

Lips twitching, Neil looked away. “Of what you can do to me.”

His voice was barely audible, but Jean heard his words nonetheless. They pierced right through him, not unlike bullets, and threatened to drag him under. Something ached distantly in his chest as he stared at the side of Neil’s face, his skin illuminated by the pale lights and moonlit bay.

(Really, he thought he felt the same exact way).

((Because somewhere along the line, Jean had decided to give Neil the keys to his graveyard garden. Trusted him to let himself in only whenever the time was right, trusted him to guard his secrets tenderly)).

He’d told Neil about Adalie, about Bastien, about the war. Told him about what had happened to the people and things Jean had loved. Then he’d given Neil the bits and pieces of his own heart, and once again -

He’d made Neil a loss with the power to _hurt_.

Jean tore his gaze away from Neil’s face, focusing on the East Egg in the distance.

“I’m afraid too,” he murmured.

“Of me?”

In the broken silence, Jean wondered if he’d ever be able to tell Neil half the things he thought about him. It seemed hopeless.

“Anything but you,” he said, because it was the closest to his truth that he could get.

“You probably want to know what happened,” his friend murmured after a long minute. “You can ask.”

Jean set aside his open invitation, opting to ask instead, “How long is Stuart visiting for?”

Neil cast him a look of faint surprise, before his lips twitched.

“However long he needs to stay,” was his vague reply.

“I don’t think he liked me very much.”

Chuckling quietly, Neil tilted over so that he was lying on his back, hands crossed over his stomach. “Don’t worry about it. He doesn’t like anybody much.”

“Maybe he thought I wasn’t rich enough.” Jean glanced up at the stars. “I’m not a million dollar man.”

“Maybe.”

A long silence followed, only interrupted by the whirring of an airplane engine from far above. Then Neil’s voice again, the softest Jean had ever heard it. Hesitant and afraid.

“Maybe I wanted you to kiss me.”

He was barely louder than a ghost’s breath, so quiet that Jean didn’t know if Neil was talking to himself or him. But his ribs hurt from how hard his heart started hammering.

Jean looked over at Neil, at the twisted expression on his face, at the way he almost looked like a corpse in the moonlight - except that was _wrong_.

Neil had a different kind of life within him, a stubborn kind that could never quite die.

He looked _beautiful_ \- that was what he was. Beautiful enough to rob Jean of his lungs and heart, yet kind enough to take them in for safekeeping.

“Did you?” he asked, words tripping over his own tongue. Neil opened his eyes, and Jean could swear there were fractals of the sea among the stars in them.

“I did.” His voice was stronger this time, like he’d answered his own question.

Jean stared at Neil for a long time, before he shifted to hold himself carefully over Neil’s body, propping himself up on an elbow. Neil gazed back at him steadily, the very edges of his lips curling upwards as his eyes softened into something far more present. Warmth pooled insistently in Jean’s stomach when their proximity finally _clicked_ , when he could feel Neil’s first breath ghost over his own nose.

Moving slowly and obviously, Jean lifted his free hand to trace a fingertip over a scar on Neil’s cheek. The skin felt only slightly rougher there.

His throat was dry, but his words true.

“Maybe I did too,” he whispered.

Neil tilted his head to the side into his palm. “Then kiss me,” he breathed, resigned.

Jean shut his eyes for a brief moment, fingers curling into Neil’s hair. Then he leaned down slowly, pausing just an inch above Neil’s waiting lips. His heart beat hard enough he was sure Neil could feel his pulse from where their bodies were pressed together. He stared into his ocean eyes, searching for anything that could ward him off, and failed.

“Okay,” he finally whispered, before closing the distance between them for good.

Kissing Neil was like kissing _war_.

Jean could taste the wretched survival instincts, the wartorn honesty, the bullet-ridden bravery on his whiskey-sweet lips. He sank against Neil in defeat, felt himself succumbing to the chaos, the danger, the _fight-that-started-at-your-bloodied-lips_. When Neil opened up his mouth, Jean kissed him harder, a soft groan escaping the man below him.

But beneath the chaos, there was something else: a grave being unearthed without the body. Just their broken pieces finally beginning to piece together.

And the image being formed was the most dangerous thing, even more dangerous than the war - it was the image of defiance, of _I might be broken, but maybe I can_ _still work with it_.

And that defiance, that grit, that angry, brutish, foolish bravery - that was the most fatal weapon of war.

The weight on Jean’s chest lifted, and he inhaled deeply as he bit down on Neil’s lip, eliciting another quiet gasp from him. All he could smell was everything _Neil_ : cigarette smoke, orchids, and midnight whiskey.

He started when he felt Neil’s fingers curling in his hair. His eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, he could only see Neil’s delicate eyelids and heavy lashes.

“Jean.” He could taste his own name on Neil’s lips, and his head swam with it. He swept his tongue along Neil’s lower lip, his free hand ghosting down to settle on Neil’s hip. They continued to kiss until they couldn’t breathe anymore, until they had to break apart or else they’d suffocate.

Neil’s cheeks were red as he panted, and Jean’s hair was messy where Neil’s fingers had been carding through it.

“I liked that,” he whispered once he finally caught his breath. Jean’s throat was tight, closed up. 

“Me too,” he managed to say.

He didn’t need a second invitation before he leaned down again, this time capturing Neil’s lips with a fervor neither of them expected. He let Neil’s hands roam down his sides, arms wrapping around his waist to draw him closer. Chests pressed together, Jean could feel two heartbeats pulsing through his body, reverberating through his belly like war drums. They kissed even as the moon began to drag itself across the sky, and their shadows melded together underneath the lamp and starlight.

(They stole their moments from the world to make up for everything else the world stole from them).

((And if Neil was war, then -

This was a battle Jean had already lost from the start)).

He began to trail kisses down Neil’s neck, the younger man tilting his head to the side to give him more space. Neil’s lips, kiss-swollen and red, parted mid-breath as Jean lingered against his jaw. His eyes glistened as he shifted over to stare at Jean, their faces close enough that he could almost feel Neil’s lashes brushing against his skin.

“I wanted to run,” Neil whispered, his voice soft and hoarse. “You were too much, you know.”

Jean bit his lip, all the fight leaving him in a dizzying rush. Leaning forward, he tentatively brushed his lips against the corner of Neil’s mouth, upturned in what seemed like an eternal smile.

“Not anymore,” he whispered back, body shuddering with a quietly relieved sigh.

 

\--

 

The house lit up once more the next night, and the streets flooded with uninvited guests. Jean sat out on his porch, sorting through his thoughts.

If during-Neil had been a smooth sea, then post-Neil was the cruel push and pull of the waves. And he was the sailor lost at sea after falling in love with a storm, and he’d given his compass away.

This all was new. Jean had never thought about romance much before, especially not after the war. He had never thought about willingly letting himself _feel_ at a level like this. Never thought about willingly opening up his weak side, his soft underbelly. This was uncharted territory, and from the delicate, almost fragile look on Neil’s face when Jean had to return home that night, it was unfamiliar to both of them.

That only terrified him further.

 _Somehow_ , he’d managed to capture Neil. He wanted to keep him so _badly_ , but he just didn’t know _how_. He couldn’t control Neil, he couldn’t control what happened to either of them.

He’d fought a war before, but he’d tried to  _love_ one.

Everything led him, inexplicably, to Renee’s new church.

It was - strange.

Jean had visited the very church only once before, when he’d first come to New York. That was before he’d given up on faith altogether. Paint had been peeling over the wood, while the stained glass had been crusted over with fine dust. He’d fumbled through the yellowed and creased Bibles there, before leaving and never looking back.

But now, everything was born anew. The wooden walls were freshly polished and waxed, the paint reapplied while the stained glass murals glowed.

The crucifix hanging at the very end of the altar loomed over Jean, the shadow crossing over half his face as he stared down the reflection of his failed faith. After all, what kind of god could send so many men and women off to war? What kind of god could take away someone like Adalie?

Faith had let him down before, and Jean couldn’t see where things would start getting better for him there.

But Renee seemed proud of her accomplishments, an expression of molten warmth on her face as she looked on, so Jean wiped his face blank.

They stood alone, almost like a newlywed couple in the aisle. Their shadows looked like one lopsided creature.

“I really appreciate you for coming. Thank you.” Renee’s voice, although soft, was sudden enough that Jean nearly flinched. “I know you don’t like to participate in these kinds of things, but this is a sanctuary for me, so I would hope that this could eventually become one for you as well. Even if you don’t believe, you can still feel safe here.”

Stiffly, Jean slowly removed his arm from her grasp. Renee watched him curiously as he clenched one hand over his wrist, finger tracing the scar on the back of his hand. He stared intently at the fresh Bibles on the empty seats. White pages, unmarked words.

Pure.

Renee reached out but didn’t touch him, sensing the silence had changed. “Can we sit down?”

Jean nodded curtly, allowing her to lead him to a spot just underneath the cross. He hesitated before sitting down, hiding his suddenly trembling hands in his lap as Renee took off her shoes with a relieved sigh.

“Goodness, these were becoming a nuisance,” she breathed, stretching out her legs. The front doors were open, letting a rare cool breeze inside, but it was just the two of them. “I always loved sitting here, underneath the crucifix. It always made me feel closer to Him. It’s a beautiful view, too.”

Renee’s words drifted gently through the air as she rubbed her ankles. Jean let her sit there in silence, tugging his knees close to his chest.

His breath left him through gritted teeth, trembling, as he struggled against the ever-present desperation to say something, _anything_. To seek guidance to something he’d never tried before, to find _any_ way to feel less overwhelmed or lost.

Eventually, the light began to change. The glowing beam stretching down the aisle moved with the sun, shifting until it started to shine through the stained glass windows. It covered Renee’s face in faint purple and sapphire hues.

She looked so peaceful there, with her hair tied back in a loose bun and her fingers clasped over her knee. She looked safe, gazing at the opposite wall with that open and kind expression, lips parted with prideful wonder as she gazed about.

And Jean finally spoke.

“I kissed him. Neil.”

He looked away, waited for deliberation like a murderer waited for his verdict. He closed his eyes, unable to bear the weight of Renee’s indiscernible gaze, and instead focused on the feeling of his scarred hand underneath his quivering fingers.

(He thought he could feel the crucifix shaking under the weight of his confession).

Just when the silence began to stretch on for too long, just when the familiar tendrils of panic began to snake treacherously around Jean’s chest, Renee finally spoke.

“Okay. Is that what was wrong?”

Jean couldn’t make himself answer. And when he didn’t, he could hear Renee shifting. Soft footsteps padded in front of him, and fabric rustled as she knelt in front of him.

“Look at me, Jean.”

He did.

There was only kindness in her eyes. Kindness, and some sadness.

“If he helps you, if he’s healing you, then I don’t care what you’ve done with him,” she said calmly. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve seen you struggle for years now to find peace, and I think that you’re on your way to finding it now. Frankly, I wouldn’t trade anything else for that.”

Placing her fingers under his chin, she tilted his head up. Jean said quietly, gazing at her honeyed eyes, “But you’re only one person, Renee.”

“So?” Her expression was firmer now, almost harsher. “I told you that you deserve beautiful things, didn’t I?”

“I don’t - ”

“You deserve everything, Jean. You do.” Renee dropped her hand, but her gentleness lingered against his skin. “I promise you. And even if you don’t believe it, there _are_ people who love you. _I_ do.”

“But it’s selfish,” he said quietly. She raised her eyebrows at his words, frowning.

“I don’t think so.”

Jean ran his hands shakily through his hair, tugging at them harshly so that he didn’t lose himself. He shut his eyes and counted to ten in French, exhaling sharply.

“I don’t even know how I’ve managed to make it this far,” he whispered. “How can I expect him to be able to hold me up too? How can I expect him to be okay himself?”

Renee stared at him for a good minute as she thought of an answer. Jean could see it forming on her lips as he turned away, suddenly unable to make himself look at her any longer. Her words were gentle but firm when she spoke again.

“You don’t need to know everything about healing or yourself to be able to care about someone,” she said sagely. “Being able to love and cherish yourself isn’t a requirement to love someone else. Of _course_ you can want him - that’s not selfish. You’re trying and that’s what matters.”

“It’s wrong,” Jean insisted stubbornly.

“It is not. Even if you are hurting, it is not selfish to want someone else. You’re navigating a very confusing and treacherous terrain, Jean, and no one’s been able to map it before. That’s hard enough already. If Neil makes it easier, makes it a _little_ more bearable, then it’s okay to want him. You may even be doing the same thing for him.

“You were made into a weapon and thrown into war.” Her smile was sad now, but still every inch truthful. “Now they expect you to find peace. So you take what you can get, Jean.”

He didn’t know what the sudden clenching in his chest was, but Renee’s words shocked the breath right out of his lungs. He looked away and clenched his fists against the ache; slowly, he felt his conflicts beginning to fade away. Still present, just a background noise.

Renee’s next question came ten minutes later, spoken so softly Jean was almost convinced he’d hallucinated it.

“Do you think you love him?”

(Was he in love with Neil? He didn’t know he could fall in love with anything anymore).

((He’d been in love with life, before. In love with Marseille, in love with his sister’s way of asking curious things, in love with the way the stars looked above the sea - all before they were tainted with the spoils of war)).

But now, maybe he was in love with something else. In love with the mere act of survival - not the best kind of love, but a desperate kind of love, the type that left you holding on with fraying fingers and aching teeth. In love with his friends, with the way they relentlessly stayed by him even though Jean never repaid them for anything at all.

(And, of course, _Neil_ , who proved to be an exception to everything).

He was a man of the universe: oceans trapped in his eyes, constellations scattered across his cheeks. He was a man who was larger than life, refusing to be put out. He was a phoenix, the eighth wonder of the world, trapped beneath moonflower skin and breathy smiles.

And if Neil was life, maybe Jean could fall in love with both again.

He shifted, watching his shadow mirror his movements. Renee was watching him curiously, but unwilling to press for an answer.

“He’s easy to love,” was all he decided to say.

Renee smiled privately, before turning away and humming quietly, brushing her fingertips over the freshly laid carpet. The crucifix no longer looked like a looming threat, only a meaningful decoration. Jean finally allowed himself to sit back and count the dust motes.

 

\--

 

There were at least thirty-seven freckles splattered across Neil’s cheeks.

They were lying in Neil’s bed, barely touching, just close enough that Jean could feel Neil’s breath gusting over his skin. He was talking about Allison and Matt’s quirks, though Jean couldn’t register any of his words. He could only focus on Neil’s soft voice and the slight, fond smile on his face as he spoke, the way his fingers curled around the pillow and his other hand rested just a few inches from Jean’s own.

“Did you know that I never really knew anything about suits?” Neil murmured, before reaching out and brushing Jean’s hair out from his eyes.

“I don’t believe you,” Jean whispered, struggling to pretend Neil’s touch hadn’t affected him at all.

“No,” he said, laughing breathily. “Allison dresses me all the time. She was born into wealth, you know? I never even touched money until my uncle came along.”

“I’m surprised you know how to handle all this, then,” Jean said.

Neil’s smile was sheepish as he replied, “I don’t.”

Jean rolled over onto his back and looked around the room. The only source of light came from the half-open balcony doors, illuminating the floor in a soft glow. Stacked against the walls across from the bed were shelves upon shelves of books. Some spines were weathered and others brand new, glowing like foreign satin in the afternoon blush.

Neil noticed him looking at them, sitting up and stretching. His shirt pulled taut against his muscles.

“I started a collection since I was young,” he said, pushing himself off the bed. “The books. They were my comfort.”

Jean sat up as Neil trailed his fingers over the novels, his expression oddly open. Glazed over with faint nostalgia, his eyes snagged onto the occasional spine, and he paused, before finally pulling a book out and joining Jean again.

“ _The Iliad_ ,” he murmured as Neil tapped his fingers against the beat-up cover. “Your favorite?”

“I always loved the story,” Neil said softly. “It’s a spoken one. I could take it with me wherever I went, even if I didn’t have the book with me. I needed something like that. It was a bit impractical at times to keep carrying books around.”

“Impractical?”

Neil’s lips twitched in the ghost of a tentatively fond smile.

“I never really had a childhood home, you see,” he said with a tinge of bitterness. “My mother and I moved from place to place all the time. The only things I could take from the cities I went through were these stories.” He tapped the book in Jean’s lap. “ _The Iliad_ was the first one.”

Jean asked softly, “Which city?”

“Columbia.” Shutting the book, Neil tucked it back against his chest and leaned forward. Jean could almost sense the aftertaste of the city name on his lips. His breath gusted warmly across Jean’s skin as he murmured, “It felt safe, having at least one thing I knew would never change, even as I did.”

“Mm.”

“My mother used to say this to me,” he murmured. “‘Some things, once you’ve loved them, are yours forever.’”

Something twisted in Neil’s expression, like he was remembering something he didn’t want to. Before Jean could mull over his words, the young man was wrapping his arms around Jean’s shoulders, slotting himself between his legs.

“Enough about the past,” he murmured as he leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together. “Are you staying tonight?”

“I don’t think so,” Jean said, slowly reaching up until his hands rested over Neil’s hips. The young man shifted closer, rubbing his fingers against Jean’s scalp.

“Does it still get too loud?” he asked softly, his eyes fluttering. “The noise. You said when we met that you didn’t like it.”

“It’s okay now,” Jean found himself saying.

The smile that came over Neil’s face was feathery-light but brilliant, and Jean couldn’t help but straighten up to press a kiss against his lips. They’d only kissed a few times before, but each time felt just as dangerous and exhilarating as the first. Neil sighed quietly as he melted into Jean’s touch, his fingers tugging at Jean’s hair lightly.

“I think Allison should be here soon,” he mumbled against Jean’s mouth.

“Don’t think she likes me much either,” he mumbled back.

“She doesn’t like anyone,” Neil huffed. He looked like he wanted to stay there, but he pulled away anyway. “Seems to be a common theme now. I’ll walk you out.”

Jean reluctantly stood up to follow Neil toward the door. He would’ve been content to stay there all afternoon, just counting up all the different combinations of constellations that he could find on Neil’s skin, listening to his moonflower voice fill in the lazy silence. But Neil was throwing another party in a couple of hours, and Jean didn’t feel like staying for the chaos that day.

He was as content just walking through the otherwise empty castle with his - his _lover_ , close enough that their hands nearly brushed every other moment.

(It still felt strange and lopsided to call Neil that, but Jean thought he’d eventually get used to it).

They stopped before entering the garden. As if on a whim, Neil turned around and pressed something carefully against Jean’s chest. He glanced down and saw Neil’s battered copy of _The Iliad_.

“I want you to read it,” he said at Jean’s questioning look. “Then you can tell me what you think.”

“But it’s yours,” Jean said, his fingers tentatively curling around the book. Somehow, it felt sacred.

“Words get twisted. Meanings are different.” There was a knowing twinkle in Neil’s eyes as he pressed the book against Jean’s heart. “It doesn’t mean we can’t find home in the same place.”

Jean stared at him, at the imitation-Orion freckles right under Neil’s left eye. His lips parted on a fragmented breath, but no words would come out. Neil’s smile knew everything, though, as he trailed his fingers across Jean’s lips, like he was taking all the words Jean couldn’t speak and tucking them away on his own bookshelves.

Then he let go with a soft, satisfied sound, and murmured, “Tell me when you’re done with it, yeah? Maybe you can read it to me sometime.”

“I will,” Jean whispered, almost to himself.


	6. VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an anniversary passes, and neil receives a call from stuart. jean comes out to kevin.
> 
>  **warnings** : grief, discussions of: past trauma, death, war, war imagery, implied past child abuse

They were kissing to the background noise of yet another summer rainfall when Neil suddenly went slack, allowing Jean to slowly push him against the mattress. He hovered above Neil, unsure of what to do as Neil gazed up at him with a strange openness in his eyes.

“Keep going.” His voice was raspy as his hands tugged at Jean’s messed-up collar until their lips met again. A quiet sigh bubbled from his throat when Jean bit down gently on his lower lip, and the sound traveled right down to his belly. He pulled back slightly, fingers trailing over the hem of Nei’s sweater.

Neil faltered slightly, lips parted mid-breath as he fiddled with Jean’s shirt. Jean paused when he took note of his hesitance, looking up. “Neil?”

After a short lull, his lover shuddered and pulled Jean close to kiss him again. “Don’t take it off,” he whispered shakily against his lips, gesturing toward his sweater, “but you can put your hands underneath.”

“Okay.” Jean leaned some of his weight against his lover, giving him time to take his words back. When he didn’t, Jean began pushing up Neil’s sweater only slightly, enough to reveal part of his abdomen.

Keeping his touch soft, he began to rub circles into Neil’s heated skin, closing his eyes so he didn’t destroy the timid secrecy between them. Eventually, at Neil’s tiny gasps and subtle urging, he began to move upwards, taking note of every single dip and curve of Neil’s body, astutely memorizing every patch of skin he felt.

Some parts were rougher than others, some parts raised and others oddly smooth. Jean knew that they were scars of some kind, but he didn’t try to move any farther up Neil’s torso. He took only what Neil was willing to give him - nothing else - despite his own curiosity. There were stories trapped underneath Neil’s skin that Jean wished he could unearth. But he didn’t know how to dig up old graves without digging down too far, without scraping and scarring the bones. Only Neil had the power to tell him, and Jean refused to take that power away.

So he shut his eyes tightly and focused solely on the feeling of Neil’s body pressed against his.

Jean only stopped when he felt a shuddering sigh burst forth against his lips. He pulled back to see Neil’s eyes already staring back at him. They were molten with a shaky gratitude, strained with the sheer force of it. Softened with a fatigued sort of serenity, the kind of peace that came with halcyon coasts and overflowing flower beds. So beautiful and gentle, that he feared the feeling would completely shatter if he so much as breathed too hard.

“You’re staring,” Neil whispered as he trailed his fingers down his face. Jean blinked and felt his cheeks flush.

“Can’t help it, _mon ange_ ,” he mumbled, before freezing.

The nickname had slipped out from nowhere, and it wrapped Jean up like a vice. Attachment whispered taunting nothings in his ears as all his oldest scars and wounds flared up in an instant, insecurity crashing over him like a cruel wave. He didn’t regret the words, but he -

Neil’s breathy laughter brought him back. Jean blinked hard, meeting his lover’s glowing gaze.

Lacing his fingers through Jean’s hair again, Neil tugged him close.

“ _Mon choupinou_ ,” he mumbled.

It took a second for the words to register, but once they did, Jean found himself struggling to stifle a giddy smile. He tried to ignore the warmth, odd and unfamiliar, spreading through his chest at Neil’s words, and instead kissed his lover’s knowing grin away a little too fiercely.

He fell into the rhythm of Neil’s hitched breaths and the rustling bedsheets so quickly that when the telephone abruptly began ringing, he flinched.

Neil groaned in disappointment, glancing at him apologetically. Jean let him answer the phone while he sat back, unable to stop himself from subconsciously rubbing his thumb over his tingling lips.

“Neil Josten,” his lover answered. Jean narrowed his eyes when the warmth in his expression quickly began to drain away. “Oh - Stuart. Hello.”

Eyeing Jean furtively for the briefest moment, Neil turned away. He stayed silent for a while, still like stone. Unsure, Jean stood up but didn’t try approaching Neil, just staying there as his lover listened to whatever his uncle was saying.

“Okay. When will you be arriving?” When Neil finally spoke again, his voice was bereft of any light it had before. It was such a stark change that Jean felt a shiver run down his back. Another pause, then a somber, “Be careful, Uncle.”

The telephone hung up with a loud click, echoing through the newfound, wintry silence that had settled between them.

Jean stepped forward as Neil turned around, inhaling shakily. “Should I leave?” he asked quietly. Neil’s eyes flickered to him, and for a moment, he looked almost transparent.

“I’m sorry.” His apology was delayed and misplaced, but an answer nonetheless. Jean nodded, accepting it without question. Despite the concern lingering in his chest, he murmured a soft goodbye to Neil, but he didn’t leave before taking his lover’s hands. A sigh shuddered from Neil’s frame as Jean brought his hands up to his own lips, pressing a tentative kiss to the roughened knuckles. Neil’s ring pressed against his chin.

“I’ll see you soon,” he promised. His lover closed his eyes tightly, before slipping out of his grip.

Jean thought he heard Neil say something as they parted - it sounded like a broken, desperate prayer.

 

\--

 

It had been four days since they’d last spoken. The quiet left Jean at the kitchen, struggling to read _The Iliad_. He tried to focus on the poetry, but found his eyes straying to Neil’s notes scribbled through the margins much more often.

Kevin had come home from work and was in the living room listening to the evening radio when the phone abruptly began to ring. Jean almost knocked over his chair as he stood up to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Jean.” Even with his voice crackling and snapping here and there with static, Neil was easily recognizable anywhere.

Relief from worry he didn’t even know he had crashed over him, and Jean nearly dropped the phone. Kevin looked up curiously when he breathed, “Neil. Is everything alright?”

A pause, then an answer. “I’m fine. I’m sorry for not calling earlier.”

“It’s okay.”

“But I have some - some business I need to take care of. In Maryland, to be more precise. You might not see me for a bit.”

Jean involuntarily clenched his fist around the telephone handle when he recognized the heavy toll of defeat in Neil’s voice. It was something that belonged to _him_ , after long, sleepless nights and nightmares of Adalie’s death, over and over again. It wasn’t supposed to belong to someone like Neil, someone who was larger than life itself.

It was _wrong_.

But then Neil was speaking again, this time softer. “But you will know when I’m back. I don’t want you to worry.”

“Take care, Neil,” Jean said, his voice hushed. He wanted to wish him safety - but Jean had learned a long time ago that many wishes didn’t come true at all.

“Thank you.” Neil paused, like he was thinking. Then he added as an afterthought, so quietly that Jean thought he’d hallucinated it. “You just keep finding me, Jean.”

The call dropped before Jean had the chance to answer.

It felt like they were on the cusp of something terrible and something great, except Jean didn’t know what it was.

Neil was a subtle haunting: here and there and everywhere, _reach-out-and-grasp-it-and-it’s-gone_. A lost dream, stuck looping in Jean’s head, one that he just couldn’t understand. He’d unravel one knot only to find another enigma in place.

(Neil’s words sounded more than just a temporary goodbye. Too raw, too preemptive).

Suddenly the phone still grasped in his hand felt ten times heavier, and Jean set it down with a harsh click. The couch cushions rustled as Kevin stood up.

“That was Neil,” he said, in the same tone he always used whenever he demanded answers. Jean sighed, bracing himself against the counter, before turning around to face his friend.

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“He will be in Maryland for some business. He wanted to tell me so I didn’t worry.”

“Maryland.” Something odd crossed Kevin’s face just then. “What business?”

“He didn’t tell me,” Jean muttered. “Bootlegging, maybe.”

“No, he quit that.” His friend looked away, rubbing his face. Jean raised his eyebrows.

“What’re you so worried about?”

“Nothing.” Kevin paused, before shrugging and sighing. “It’s probably nothing he can’t handle.”

Jean let the words sink in. “This is another thing that’s not your place to tell me, I presume.”

“Sorry.” Kevin’s apology was unwarranted, but it clumsily fell between them anyway. His friend stared at the ground, frowning, before sitting up to look at Jean. “I didn’t realize you two were so close.”

Pushing himself off the counter, Jean collapsed in a chair at the dining room table. Kevin’s comment was innocent enough, but he could sense the undercurrent of curiosity beneath it.

Neil wasn’t a secret to be kept. He was warm and solid and _alive_. He had ghosts trapped in his blood, not unlike Jean, but he too embodied the desperation and fight that came with war. No, bloodshed and brutality would _never_ be romantic like Neil’s eyes were in the moonlight, but he was _made_ from battle. Anyone who bothered to look close enough could tell.

It was in the way Neil would leave pieces of himself everywhere: in the constellations, in the streets, in the dark. The way he was a raw wound, was the pained ache in the bones that never left.

Jean closed his eyes, found the hard-fought and hard-won truth pressing up against his tongue as Kevin looked on.

“We kissed before.” His words were slow and simple enough, but Jean’s head spun with the force of them. A loud thud tore through the silence between them as Kevin dropped his book.

“ _Oh_.”

Jean shut his eyes and forced himself to take a deep breath. When the silence became too much, he added, almost defensively, “It’s not wrong.”

“Are you homosexual then?” Kevin’s gaze was indiscernible, and Jean looked away. His heart started to beat faster as he thought of Neil, of the duality of defeat and victory that could manifest in his ocean eyes.

Truthfully, Jean didn’t know _what_ he was. It wasn’t anything he’d ever thought about before - he’d never thought things like this would concern him.

“I don’t know.” Jean swallowed against the sudden tightness in his throat. “I've never thought about it. Maybe.”

He waited with bated breath, fingers eventually becoming stiff and pained from holding onto the bottle so tightly. He wondered if he should’ve been slightly ashamed of himself.

(He didn’t have to be ashamed for _wanting_ such an extraordinary man).

((Didn’t he?))

Jean only wondered if Kevin would think of it the same way.

When his friend finally inhaled to speak, after what seemed like years, his words merely came in the form of a sad plea.

“I don’t care,” he said with finality, and Jean stiffened with shock. “I don’t care. Just don’t leave me behind.”

He dared to look his friend in the eye, and jolted at the half-disguised desperation in Kevin’s face. He couldn’t say anything - his throat had suddenly closed up - but his friend just took a step closer, closing his eyes like he was trying to gather himself together.

“What you have with Neil doesn’t concern me,” he said slowly, choosing his words carefully as Jean looked on uselessly. “I just don’t want to - to lose you again. This job, I - it already takes out so much time. And I _know_ it’s just a job, that’s what I told you too - ”

Kevin wasn’t normally one for emotions, and Jean knew from the way he kept mincing his words that it _hurt_ him to speak them out loud. He opened his mouth to try and offer some form of reassurance, only to find his speech completely dried up.

It _hurt_ to know that he was _wanted_ \- he had been made to be an expendable weapon, after all. The cruel jerk and subsequent cradle of home: _come back here, I refuse_ _to let you go_.

So Jean stood up and stepped close. He held his hands up, fingers brushing tentatively against Kevin’s wrists.

“I won’t. I promise.” It was barely louder than a breath, but a promise that bound them together, fusing them at skin-point. Kevin looked like he wanted to just roll his eyes and brush Jean off, but he didn’t miss the way his friend squeezed his wrists back.

“I don't know. I shouldn’t have worried in the first place - ”

“Shut up.”

“Okay.”

Jean didn’t know what he wanted to do. His body ached with the whiplash of home; he didn’t think it was possible to feel so settled yet disjointed at the same time.

He resorted to muttering the same promise over and over again, like Kevin was a child - he _wasn’t_. But sometimes you needed someone to tell you anyway.

“I promise,” he murmured, as his friend’s shoulders sagged. “I promise. _Je promets,_ _frère._ ”

“I’m too sober for this,” Kevin grumbled after a long minute. It was so sudden that despite the rawness of everything, it still shook a startled laugh out of Jean’s chest; Kevin stared up at him in wonder.

Hazily, Jean realized he didn’t remember the last time he’d really laughed.

And he dizzily admitted, “Me too.”

For the briefest moment, Jean felt like he finally belonged in his skin and bones again. But the life cycle always went like this: after the rise always came the inevitable fall.

 

\--

 

Five days later, guests started to pool in Neil’s driveway again.

Jean had just finished a game of cards with Kevin when he noticed the first cars pulling into the streets, and he’d nearly upended his friend’s whiskey glass from how quickly he’d stood up. Kevin scowled and gathered up his cards, though his frown dropped when he noticed Jean’s suddenly tight expression.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, craning his neck to peer out the window. Jean was grabbing his coat and tugging on his shoes before Kevin could even see anything.

“I need to go. I’ll talk to you later,” he said hastily as he tried in vain to get his left shoe on.

Kevin raised an eyebrow, though his face was slack with concern, not disdain. “It’s Neil, isn’t it?” When Jean didn’t confirm or deny anything, he set the cards aside and stood up, clearing the table. “Well, are you coming back tonight?”

“I don’t know. Probably.” Jean straightened up, taking a deep breath. Suddenly his heart began pounding - Neil had told him not to worry, but Jean hadn’t been able to help the growing concern in his chest as each day passed in silence.

His friend didn’t stop him as he headed for the door, only calling out after him, “Don’t do anything stupid, Jean!”

As he headed up the sidewalk, he couldn’t help but speed up his pace. Jean pushed past the crowd, receiving a few well-directed glares and indignant curses, barely stopping himself from running up the steps. The grand entrance was wide open, welcoming everyone in.

But Jean could tell something was off. The atmosphere tasted different.

He didn’t see Matt anywhere, but he did nearly crash head-on into Allison as he rounded the corner, heading for the stairs.

“Watch it - oh. Moreau.” She tried to sound contemptuous, but Jean caught the slightest twist in her cold expression as she released him. “What are you doing here?”

“I invited myself in,” Jean said. “Where is Neil?”

She stared at him through narrowed eyes, lips twitching. Jean started when one of her hands surged up to grab his elbow. Light reflected off the metal bands wrapped around her fingers.

“He’s not in the best shape,” she said, for once opting for honesty rather than animosity. “I don’t think you should see him.”

“What happened?”

“I can’t tell you.”

Jean tugged his arm out of Allison’s hand. “I’m going to find him.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to be found right now,” she countered stubbornly.

“You’re lying.”

Annoyance glazed Allison’s sharp eyes over, but Jean caught the tiny spark of begrudging admiration in the stormy hallows. She stood back, tilting her head to the side. “Did anyone tell you how disgustingly stubborn you are?” she asked challengingly.

Jean clenched his fists, before forcing himself to relax. Allison’s gaze darted down to his hands, before her eyes flashed back up at him.

“It’s how I survive,” he finally said.

They stared at each other for so long it almost became suffocating. Allison looked at him like she was just seeing him for the first time. Then she suddenly reached outward, grabbing Jean by the collar and yanking him close. He couldn’t help but marvel at how strong she was.

“He told me to leave him alone,” she said lowly, quietly enough that no one around them would be able to hear. “It’s a terrible day for him, and he’s holed himself up in his room all day. But maybe you can try to get to him...he seems to like you a lot, anyway.” Then she shoved Jean away, her nose wrinkling like she hated being so close to him. He ignored her expression, making his way up the stairs when she spoke up again.

“You’re something else, Jean Moreau,” she remarked.

He glanced over his shoulder at her. “I’ve done nothing special.”

Allison raised her eyebrows, reaching into her bag and grabbing a cigarette. She lit it with a graceful flick of her lighter. “That’s why,” she said through a mouthful of smoke, gazing at him intently.

Jean didn’t know what to make of her words; he just turned back around and headed upstairs two steps at a time. He knew where Neil’s room was by now, weaving through the scattered crowd on the indoor balcony and occasionally jostling a few displeased patrons. He eventually arrived at the familiar door, only to find it completely shut. After only a moment’s hesitation, his heart suddenly starting to pound, Jean slowly pushed it open.

Upon first glance, everything seemed normal, just like the last time they were together. Then Jean looked closer, and he noticed the several books that were strewn about the floor, the rumpled covers of the bed, and the telephone that was hanging off the hook.

Neil was standing at the window, lit by the golden hues of the sunset. His shoulders twitched slightly at the sound of the door creaking open, but he didn’t turn around.

“Allison, I told you to stay away,” he said. His voice was virtually unrecognizable: rough and battletorn, destroyed like cannon holes tearing through the side of a ship.

“It’s me,” Jean said, shutting the door quietly.

If Neil was surprised at all by his presence, he didn’t show it. He only lowered his head, fists white from how tightly they were clenched. “Jean, not now,” he gritted out after a long minute.

“What’s going on?”

“ _Please_. Just go.”

He approached Neil, stopping when he was only a few paces behind him. His lover leaned against the window, head ducked down so Jean couldn’t see his face at all. “Don’t look at me,” he said in a strangled whisper.

Jean obediently looked past the back of Neil’s head out the window, at the numerous guests and patrons gathering on the beach by the dock. “I’m not.”

A suffocated laugh rose from Neil’s throat, harsh and grating, so unlike his warmth and quietness that Jean nearly flinched.

“I don’t know what I was thinking.” His voice rose and broke under heavy waves of anguish. Jean could sense the despair seeping from between his cracks and chipped-glass-bravery, and it tasted bitter and familiar against his tongue.

“What are you talking about?”

Neil sighed shakily, straightening up and running a trembling hand through his hair.

“I’m dangerous, Jean. I can’t force you to stay.”

He took a step forward, but Neil didn’t bother turning around to face him. Jean said softly, “Then don’t. I’ll choose to stay myself.”

A choked noise escaped him. “You don’t know me or the things I’ve done,” he whispered harshly.

“I beg to differ,” Jean snapped.

“You don’t know the whole story,” Neil muttered. “Never the whole story.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

Those words were enough to make Neil turn around. Even in the darkness of the shadows, his seasick eyes shone brilliantly. Except this time Jean wasn’t the sailor lost at sea - _Neil_ was. He could see the pain, the fear, the desperate outcry of _unfair unfair unfair_ in his eyes.

(That sadness ran fathoms deep. The sailor, crushed underneath the wreckage, unable to escape yet unable to die. That melancholy hollowness in the throat, the emptiness in the bones that never could quite be filled).

((The tragic ending in the beautiful beginning - it all began with the sad, defeated brightness in Neil’s eyes as he slowly drowned in himself)).

“Well, you should be afraid.” The confession slipped through clenched teeth. Jean threw it aside, choosing to step toward Neil instead.

“But I’m not.”

“Then you’re a fool.”

“You wouldn’t hurt me.”

Frustration spilled over Neil’s fractured expression, though he stayed perfectly still, like he was afraid that moving would somehow shatter both of them.

“I can’t tell you,” he said lowly, _painfully_ , like the truth was being tortured out of him. “I can’t ever tell you. Because if I do, you’ll rightfully turn away, if you’re smart. Because nothing else _matters_ to me.”

He shut his eyes tightly but barreled on, his lips twisted as he murmured, “I have nothing and I _am_ nothing and I always will _be_ nothing. And I’ve stopped caring about everything, about living, about the entire goddamn crowd, because I don’t deserve any of this, and I never have - _especially_ not you.”

Jean’s chest tightened, but he couldn’t do anything as Neil straightened up and delivered the killing blow.

“So step away now while you still have the chance,” he said - _the truth was a gunshot_ \- “because everyone I’ve ever loved has ended up _dead_.”

_And you look down and there’s suddenly a hole in your chest, but it doesn’t hurt at first._

( _Because for the first time, you’re finally_ bleeding).

Neil looked like he was seconds away from breaking. His eyes were squeezed shut, his hands shaking violently as he struggled to collect himself. Jean stepped forward, his footstep echoing through the silent room. Neil froze. And Jean spoke without thinking.

“I’ve faced bullets and bombs,” he said slowly - because the war was the one thing most familiar to him, and the one thing that had strung them together in the first place. “I’ve stared into the face of my own sister’s dead body. I’ve survived war and humanity and cruelty, and I broke my bones on rock bottom but I’m still standing. Surely you did, too. You know this.

“And if you ever hurt me,” he whispered, almost pleaded, “it’s because I let you, _mon ange_. But I know that you won’t, and I know that even if you tried, I _wouldn’t_ allow you to. I’ve killed maybe hundreds of men while I was serving, and I know what I can survive. Do not make the mistake of forgetting that.”

A sound that sounded too much like a whimper ripped from Neil’s chest as he covered his face. Jean took the opportunity to finally close the distance between them, taking Neil’s wrists gently and tugging him close. It twisted Jean’s heart to hear how labored Neil’s breathing was, like every inhale scraped his lungs and every exhale made him bleed. But he held on to Neil and didn’t let go. It was the same way Bastien held Jean whenever he was upset, whenever the gunfire and artillery rain became too much, the same way he held Adalie whenever she woke up from bad dreams. The same way you would cradle something after it shattered, with muted grief and pained love - _you may be broken, but I_ cannot _let you go_.

Eventually Neil reached up and clung on to Jean’s shirt, fingers digging harshly into his back. Jean didn’t say anything, didn’t ask what had triggered this, only resting his chin against the top of his lover’s head and shutting his eyes.

(It was wrong, how right it felt: their broken parts not drawing blood, but melding together, held up by frayed puppet strings and intangible dreams and ghostly mortality).

((They were the same because they grasped onto the empty wisps of air even as they passed over their heads, and called it recovery)).

But Neil wasn’t empty air; he was _there_ , haphazardly human, and Jean refused to let him vanish.

A shuddering inhale brought his attention back to his lover, and Neil drew back slightly. “My mother died today,” was the first thing he whispered. Jean glanced down at his hand - his ring wasn’t there. Then, before Jean could say anything else, he added, barely audible, “My father killed her.”

Neil huffed softly as he leaned against Jean’s shoulder, unable to look at him. “I told you people were cruel, didn’t I?”

“I never doubted you,” Jean murmured, slowly carding his fingers through Neil’s hair.

“She died protecting me.” Neil’s fingers brushed against Jean’s side as he shivered. His voice grew strained as he continued, “Stuart - for years, he always wanted revenge. He - he’s trying to - ”

“You don’t need to tell me,” Jean mumbled. Gratefully, Neil relaxed slightly and let the words die on his tongue, inhaling shakily. “What do you need?”

“Just stay,” he pleaded in the smallest voice. “I know I told you to go, but please don’t.”

“I will.” Closing his eyes, lips brushing against Neil’s temple, Jean let the aftermath of the storm wash over them both and turn everything gray.

Wan and disembodied, they simply leaned against each other, as the partygoers kept moving on, and the world kept turning.

Cruelly, and impatiently.


	7. VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an operation goes wrong. jean and neil are left to pick up the pieces.
> 
>  **warnings** : character death, grief, discussion of scars and past abuse, ptsd and past trauma, depression

Three days passed, and the end of August melted away into weary September. And just like that, in the shift of a second, the summer had slipped away, leaving behind the bitter tang of autumn grief in the bay.

Jean sat outside on the porch, feeling the drag of fall against his skin as he watched the occasional car rush up the road. Seasonal changes always bothered him - the changes in the air were what he used to determine the days he’d been at sea. One month turned to three, then eleven. Then it was a year he had been at war, and then three. Jean had always preferred summer. It helped whenever he was trying to pretend the rocking of the ship was just the waves brushing against his legs back at Marseille, with his sister, alive and well, at his side.

He had ended up spending the night with Neil, just watching over him. Neil hadn’t been able to fall asleep, so instead Jean had read him a few excerpts out of the books he’d thrown on the floor. They didn’t kiss, nor did they say much to each other after. They had just held each other and let the warmth of their own bodies - _alive, alive, alive_ \- seep into each other.

Neil’s house was quiet that day. Jean could see some of the windows on the second and third floor hanging open, letting the last traces of the warm summer breeze flutter through. They weren’t necessarily walking on eggshells around each other, but Jean still made sure to tread lightly. It was clear that as much as Neil needed reassurance, he needed to be alone too. He needed a place to remember how to breathe on his own.

The sound of footsteps tugged him out of his thoughts. He glanced up to see Allison crossing the untrimmed grass, dressed in a regular dark sweater and slacks. Surprise flickered dimly in his chest when he looked down and noticed the whiskey bottle clasped in her hand.

She didn’t say anything as she approached him, eyeing the spot next to him with disdain, before stooping over and wiping the dust off the porch. Then she sat down with a sigh, stretching out her legs and setting the bottle down between them.

“Hello?” Jean was unsure of what else to do once she sat down next to him.

“Moreau,” she greeted him curtly. Jean just stared at her blankly as she uncapped the bottle and took a large swig.

Allison caught him staring and rolled her eyes, shoving the bottle at his chest until he took it. “Calm down, Moreau. I’m not here for trouble.”

“What _are_ you here for?” Jean hesitantly raised the whiskey to his lips, taking a slow sip. It was a better brand than the kind he and Kevin drank, but it still tasted off on his tongue: too bitter, too rich.

She pursed her lips. “I don’t know,” she said casually. “I don’t want to stay in the house all day. Neil’s still ignoring me.”

Jean straightened up when he heard his lover’s name. “Is he alright now?”

Allison snorted incredulously. “As alright as he can ever be.” 

Somber silence fell over them as yet another car rushed by, upturning a cloud of loose dust and gravel. Allison wrinkled her nose, before sticking her hand out for the liquor again. Jean obediently handed it to her.

“Has he told you about himself?” she eventually asked, wiping her lips unceremoniously with the back of her hand. “Like, _really_ talked to you?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of course you don’t.” Her stoic expression softened into something fonder - Jean dared to call it almost sisterly. “He likes to erase his history, you see. He views it this way: Neil before the war, and Neil _after_ the war. Except he likes to pretend that the Neil before the war never existed at all.” Her face twisted, fingernails clicking against the glass bottle. “And it’s breaking him apart.”

Jean’s throat tightened. He could only imagine the kind of unquiet chaos in Neil’s life: the arduous ascent, the brief victory, and then the even slower fall. The tragedy, the conundrum, and the treachery of recovery. Imagining Neil, ruined and extinguished, drifting like a ghost like the rest of them, hurt Jean like a knife had broken his ribs.

He met Allison’s gaze, the fatigued determination in her eyes, as her shoulders sagged slightly.

“He’s strong, though,” she mused quietly. “He’s probably the strongest man I know, and I don’t like men. But the world is just hellbent on being so cruel to him.”

“He is strong,” Jean murmured.

Allison glanced at him, but for once she didn’t look judgemental at all. “See, we’re very similar in some ways,” she said, gesturing between them. 

“How?” 

“We both love him, don’t we?” 

Jean’s heart stuttered at her words.

(She made it sound so easy: the finger-fraying grip with which they clung on to each other, the bloody battle trenches littering their hearts and bodies, the home in their bones that they’d _somehow_ managed to find in each other. The trauma, the fragments, all the stained glass pieces that Jean was barely piecing together.

All of that. All the truths, all the confessions, all the heartache and nightmares and sorry conversations, and -

 _He loved him_ ).

((Neil’s love could wage war, and Jean knew he’d wage war again, again, and again, for Neil)).

Some things didn’t have reasons behind them, after all. Some things just _happened_ , inexplicably. Adalie died. The war happened. And somewhere, somehow, in the haze of a post-war-ravaged sea, Jean had fallen in love.

Allison’s eyes softened again at whatever expression was on his face. She reached out, tapping his cheek.

“You weren’t exactly subtle, to be fair,” she said.

“That’s not - _fils de pute_.” Jean cut himself off, clearing his throat. Neil’s smile, untainted and pristine like the day they’d first met, flashed in his memory. He opted for silence, grabbing the whiskey out of Allison’s loosened grip.

“If that’s too much for you right now,” she said, “we also both love Renee. Right?”

Allison’s lips quirked in the tiniest smirk when he nearly choked on the liquor, coughing loudly into his elbow.

“You - I didn’t know you and Renee are - ” 

Allison waved his shock off. “That’s a different story. It doesn’t matter right now. What matters is that I’m telling you all of this because I know what you and Neil have together.”

Jean forced himself to take a breath, setting the bottle down. “You’ve only told me things I knew already,” he said, just to be difficult. A wry look of amusement crossed her face, and her smirk grew bigger.

“Maybe you’re right,” she replied. Then the mirth vanished, and she leaned toward him. “But you have to know what’s happening with Neil right now, which is why I came here.”

“What is it?” Jean remembered the absolute coldness and grief in Neil’s face just a few days before, and suddenly he felt vaguely sick. To her credit, Allison didn’t look as affected, though she did snatch the bottle again and take a long swig before answering.

“You don’t know much about his father, I presume.”

“No.” 

She hummed thoughtfully, tapping her nails against the edge of the porch. “Tell me,” she eventually started, sitting back and clasping her hands. “Do you know of the Butcher of Baltimore?” 

The name struck some chord of familiarity in Jean’s mind - he’d certainly heard of the name before, being tossed around on the radio before Kevin switched the channels. But he shook his head, and Allison raised her eyebrows skeptically.

“I only came here a few years ago,” he offered as an explanation. “That’s why I didn’t know about Neil before, either.”

“Well, the Butcher is Neil’s father.” Allison’s eyes darkened as her mouth twisted in a bitter scowl and fists clenched. “ _Oh_ , you have not met a true scoundrel until you have met the Butcher. But then again, not many people can encounter him and walk away unscathed.

“I won’t tell you his real name. He doesn’t deserve a real name,” she continued. “I’m sure Kevin will be able to tell you - he knows from when he and Neil worked together - but that doesn’t matter to me. What I _want_ you to know about that son of a bitch is that he won’t be alive much longer. It’s all thanks to Neil’s uncle.” 

“Stuart,” Jean murmured as he struggled to understand the new information. Allison nodded solemnly. 

“Stuart Hatford.” She said his name slowly and carefully, like one wrong move would end in her cutting her tongue. 

“Hatford,” Jean repeated. “That sounds familiar.”

“It should be,” Allison agreed. “He’s the head of the Hatford Syndicate in London. They’re probably some of the most powerful people there, though Stuart doesn’t use his power in bad ways.”

“I’ve heard about them in the news before.” Jean suddenly remembered, thinking back to the times he would sneak a look at his parents’ newspapers that they left lying on the kitchen table. He’d caught the name _Hatford Syndicate_ there several times.

Smiling dryly, Allison nodded in agreement again. “He’s been thinking about expanding his reach to the states, anyway. So where is the best place to start, but by taking down the Butcher of Baltimore, the very man who murdered his sister?”

She didn’t wait for Jean to respond - he didn’t _have_ a response, only numb surprise and slowly dawning understanding. Allison continued, “Thing is, this is revenge that was long-overdue. Stuart’s been plotting this takeover for years, and Neil helped quite a lot. After all, he would know the whereabouts of his father the best.”

“Stuart’s killing him,” Jean concluded. She nodded solemnly, her face twisting.

“Stuart won’t let Neil in on the operation because he knows it’s too dangerous for him.” Allison’s eyes glazed over as she rested her hands over her knees. “But if something happens, Neil will take all the blame upon himself, even if it isn’t his fault. He always does that. _Always_.”

When she looked his way again again, Jean was startled into silence by the sheer pain he saw in her irises.

“My job is to protect him. That’s why Stuart hired me: to protect Neil. But I’m far more than just his stupid bodyguard. At some point, I can’t protect him anymore.” Allison shook her head, running a hand through her hair. “No one can. He won’t let them.”

Tilting her head back, Allison gazed up at the sky. The clouds had just begun to part, revealing the distant outline of the moon, nestled among the lilac atmosphere.

“Sometimes I wonder how he did manage to survive that war,” she muttered, “with his martyr complex and all.”

Jean glanced at her. He murmured, “No one will let him die either.”

Allison fixed him in an indiscernible stare, for a minute, maybe two, before her expression broke.

“Thank you, Moreau,” she said thoughtfully, before standing up. “Keep the whiskey. And - when he’s ready, I’ll have him call you.”

Jean didn’t question her, only murmuring his own farewell as he watched Allison leave. She walked with an air of confidence, no matter how exhausted or worn-down she was. Her shoulders and chin were held high, the rings around her fingers glinting every time she ran her hands through her hair.

Beneath the new revelations and wintry chaos, Jean thought he could feel a bud of admiration too.

 

\--

 

Ironically, it was Allison’s call only two nights later that brought everything to shattering halt. 

She called just as the sun had just set, the warmth in the bay air replaced with the chill of autumn. Jean groggily woke up from his nap on the kitchen counter, his cheek sticking uncomfortably to the pages of _The Iliad_. Kevin was away on a business trip of some sort with Jeremy, so Jean took his time in untangling his limbs before trudging over to answer the phone. 

“Hello?” 

“Jean. This is Allison.” 

There was something terribly wrong in her voice. Like someone had taken her stoicness and stabbed a hole right through it, and everything unknowable was leaking out the wound. 

Suddenly awake, Jean straightened up. “Allison. What happened?” 

“I need you to come here now. I know it’s late, but I need - Neil needs you.” 

“Tell me what happened.” 

“I...I can’t. Just come. Please.” 

She hung up before Jean could do anything else. And for a moment, all he could register was the obnoxious drone of the dropped call, and that something was terribly, _terribly_ wrong.

He pushed away from the counter, raking a hand through his hair. After a moment’s hesitation, he decided to grab Neil’s copy of _The Iliad_ off the counter, and ran. 

The night was cold - _too cold_ \- as he headed up the sidewalk. The grass in Neil’s yard was overgrown and unkempt, turned silver underneath the foreboding glow of the moonlight. Jean only hesitated for a moment before he headed up the steps to the grand entrance, knocking twice on the doors. 

It was Matt who answered him, lips twitching in a somber, hollow smile when he saw Jean. 

“Where’s - ” 

“Upstairs,” was all Matt said, stepping aside and letting Jean run up the stairs.

He wasn’t exactly thinking of anything at all, operating solely on adrenaline and fear of something he didn’t have a name for, as he headed down the empty hallways. He only stopped when he spotted Allison’s familiar figure by the window next to the entrance to Neil’s bedroom. The door was ajar. 

She had turned around as soon as she heard Jean’s footsteps pounding up the stairs. Her eyes were completely hollow as Jean approached her, any sign of defiance or fight drained. He stopped, and her gaze flickered down to the book clutched in his hand for only a moment. Then she looked back up at him, beckoning for him to come closer. 

“Stuart is dead.” 

She spoke under her breath so that only Jean would be able to hear her, but she might as well have fired a gun into the ceiling. Jean stared at her, his initial shock quickly fading away and leaving him cold all over. And it quickly turned into dizziness as he took a shaky step back, looking away from Allison’s empty face.

He remembered the surly man staring at him with too much suspicion - but he also remembered the same man who had looked at Neil with that keen sense of protectiveness only a parent should have been able to conjure for their child.

And he could only manage to ask, “Did he - ” 

Allison somehow understood his cut-off question. Her breath shook - from anger or grief, Jean didn’t know - and muttered, “Fucking scoundrel stabbed him. It was too late before any of us could help.” Then she laughed without humor, and a little too much bitterness. “Yes. He killed the Butcher. I guess he got the last laugh after all.” 

She closed her eyes, steeling herself. Then she reached out and gripped his shoulders. 

“I can’t be with Neil, nor can he be with me,” she whispered, almost desperately. “He’ll look at me and all he’ll see is Stuart, and that’s the last thing he needs.” 

Jean stared at her, throat tight. “I’m sorry,” he only managed to say. 

“You and I both know he doesn’t need to be coddled,” she said quietly, ignoring his misplaced apology, “nor does he want to be. But sometimes he just needs someone to hold him up, someone to spell things out. No one’s ever done that for him before.” 

Jean let her words sink in, and then he nodded with the weary finality of a soldier marching into battle. Allison’s eyes, still blank with muted grief, now glimmered with the faintest trace of gratitude. She squeezed his wrist once, before ducking her head. 

“Thank you.” 

Then she turned around and headed down the hallway to where Matt was waiting at the foot of the stairs. Jean glanced at the door, hanging half-open, and only hesitated for a moment before he pushed it open. 

At first glance, Neil’s bedroom looked completely normal. The only lighting in it was natural, flooding in through the large glass windows and casting elaborate shadows over the floor. No books were thrown about carelessly - all of them were tucked neatly away on the shelves. Even the sheets were folded tidily. It was as if no one had ever lived there before. 

Only the air was too stagnant, too _quiet_. 

Neil was sitting on the floor beside the bed, hands in his lap as he stared out the window. If he heard Jean enter, he gave no sign of noticing him - he was still like his body had been turned into stone. The only sign he was still alive was the shallow fluttering of his chest. 

When Jean sat down across from him and finally looked him in the eyes, his heart twisted angrily when he found he couldn’t recognize the man in front of him at all.

The awful, greedy hands of grief had taken their toll. They had stolen that inexhaustible, firefly glow away from Neil’s eyes, had wrenched it clean from his bones. The fiery, rosy lust for life - that brave _yearning_ that Jean had come to fall in love with - was gone, _extinguished_ by cruel and cold fingers. Neil’s ocean eyes bled out, halcyon waters turned ashen gray; his hyacinth heart stopped blooming; lavender tragedy ran underneath his moonlight skin.

The world had reached into his lover’s chest and robbed him of his humanity, his warmth - he was every inch a ghost now.

(Grief looked different on everyone, and it was an ugly, ugly thing. Jean was used to the noisy and shattered breakdowns: muffled yells, stifled sobs, helpless pleas). 

((But this second type - the silence, the _nothingness_ \- it was so much worse)). 

Nothing felt right enough to say out loud. Every noise, every minute shift sounded like a thunderclap. Jean thought desperately of what to do, shoving aside any thoughts for himself in a useless effort to think of something,  _anything_ , that could at least bring Neil back to the ground.

He eventually settled on murmuring, “Neil. It’s Jean. Listen to my voice, alright?”

 _If you called a ghost by their name, would they ever respond?_  

Jean picked up _The Iliad_ , felt the painful history and tragedy within the pages. And he flipped it open to the very beginning, where Neil had scrawled something illegible (it looked like a name) just over the first printed word: _rage_. 

And he started reading:

     Sing, Goddess, Achilles’ rage,

     Black and murderous, that cost the Greeks

     Incalculable pain, pitched countless souls

     Of heroes into Hades’ dark,

     And left their bodies to rot as feasts

     For dogs and birds, as Zeus’ will has done.

Neil’s eyes flickered to meet Jean’s as soon as he started reading. Dim recognition passed through his hollow irises. It was only a tiny stirring in the shadows, but it was enough for Jean to latch on to. He didn’t stare, though, just glanced back down at the book, and continued reading. 

Time eventually drifted away, slipping out of his fingers as he turned each page. After a while, his throat started to dry up and scratch, but Jean was ready to read all night if he had to.

He thought maybe a half hour had passed when movement in front of him caught his eye, and Neil finally spoke.

“Jean?” His voice was crumbling and cracked, barely louder than a mere creak in the wall, but Jean’s head snapped up at the sound. 

“Neil. Are you with me?” Closing the book and putting it aside, Jean shifted closer until their knees nearly brushed. He reached out for Neil’s wrists, pausing to give his lover time to pull away. When he didn’t, Jean brought Neil’s hands up to his lips, brushing a light kiss across the skin. 

A shaky sigh dislodged from Neil’s lungs, and his eyes fluttered shut. For a moment, everything was silent other than the sound of their breathing mingling, Neil’s breaths heavier than before. 

“Jean.” This time he voiced it like a plea, a desperate call: _are you there? Please tell me you’re there._

“I’m right here.”

Neil’s hands were trembling in Jean’s grip.

“He wasn’t supposed to die.” Adam’s apple bobbing, words quivering at the ends, Neil shook his head. “Stuart. He wasn’t supposed to die.” 

And there was the awful truth: that the universe did not care whether you were supposed to live or not. Death was fickle and had the touch of King Midas; Stuart was only its latest victim among millions. 

(The universe was beautiful, but it too, and even _more_ so, was cruel and tragic). 

Jean closed his eyes, squeezing Neil’s hands tightly, as his lover whispered again, “None of this was supposed to happen.” 

“You couldn’t have known.” 

“It should’ve been me.” 

“Stop it.” Jean tried not to sound harsh, but he didn’t think he could bear his lover saying such things, especially not right then. Neil fell silent, his breathing falling into a limping sort of rhythm, before fading out completely. 

Jean slowly reached out, curling his fingers underneath his lover’s chin to tilt his head up.

“Neil,” he said quietly, waiting until his lover met his gaze before continuing. “Listen to me. He wanted to protect you. And yes, he was supposed to live, but you couldn’t have known what was going to happen.” 

Jean ran his thumb underneath Neil’s eye when his lover looked away. He repeated, “There is _nothing_ you could have done.” 

His words finally got Neil to glance his way again, and Jean swore he couldn’t recognize the sudden darkness, the absolute hollowness, in his irises. It was too unfamiliar - too different - but it didn’t go away as Neil slowly drew his hands out of Jean’s grip.

He could only stare as his lover started unbuttoning his shirt. Then the darkness was gone, replaced only by blank, wintry distance. Only too late did Jean realize what Neil was doing, and by the time he reached out to grab Neil’s hands, to force him to stop - he’d seen enough. 

Battle trenches dug themselves into Neil’s chest, criss-crossing across the patchy terrain of his skin. There were pale scars and dark marks. Traces of what looked like knife marks and puckered bullet holes. His body was ravaged, clusters of freckles interrupted by discolorations and foxholes. When Jean looked up, his eye caught on the patch of skin on Neil’s shoulder revealed from where his shirt had slipped down: the looped scar in the shape of a brand.

(Sometimes Jean thought the war had damaged all his glass hope. Seeing Neil’s scars, seeing what others had _done_ to him, was the heavy boot smashing the rest of the pieces -  

Because once wasn’t ever enough).

Jean dragged his gaze up from Neil’s skin to meet his eyes. His heart fell into his stomach when he saw the tiny curve of that self-deprecating smirk again. 

“These scars,” Neil said quietly, cutting through the barren silence. His voice still shook, cracking and peeling like the paint in the very remote corners of the room. “I could have avoided them, but I didn’t.” 

He raised one hand, brushing his fingers against the burn mark on his shoulder. “Could have moved a little less,” he murmured. “Could have been quieter. Could have stopped crying before I got caught. Could have run faster.” 

As he spoke, he kept pointing to different scars. He fell silent when his hand slipped off a knife mark, falling limply into his lap. Wide blue eyes flickered up to Jean’s face, and he whispered, “I didn’t want to mess it up this time. I could have done anything to help Stu - him, but I didn’t.”

“Those were from war,” Jean insisted, “not by choice.”

Neil closed his eyes again, his lips twitching again. He sighed wearily, and spoke with the weight of a thousand years.

“I was fighting a war long before the ‘great’ one, love,” he murmured. “I was born without peace.”

“You can still find it.”

Neil’s smile broke apart. “Doesn’t it _exhaust_ you, Jean?” 

 _Yes_ , Jean wanted to say. Yes _, it wears me down to my bones, and I envy the people who can walk around every day without feeling like their shoulders will cave in._  

But he didn’t say that. Instead, he only reached up, cupping Neil’s face as gently as he could. 

“Your family is dead, Neil,” he sounded out. His lover flinched in his arms. “ _Listen_ to me. You are not okay. Nothing is going to be okay. You _know_ this. But you are still here, and you are still alive. You’re going to have to keep fighting, because _this_ war won’t end. That is the only way you can spit in their faces, everyone who ever wanted to shatter you, kill you, or hurt you. That is the only way you can find your way out. But you are _not_ alone. I’m still here - we’re all still here.” 

“I don’t want to depend on you,” Neil shuddered.

“Of course you don’t have to. But I’m not going to leave you.”

His lover had begun to shake again, raking shaking hands through his hair and yanking harshly, as Jean laced his fingers gently around his wrists. He pulled Neil against him, letting him rest his head on his shoulder. A faint, strangled noise tore from Neil’s chest as he finally unraveled, and pain flared in Jean’s own heart, like someone was twisting a knife between his ribs.

Something warm slid against Jean’s neck. He didn’t say anything as Neil shook apart silently, only stroking a hand against Neil’s scalp and shutting his eyes.

_Neil Josten was not a ghost, no matter how transparent he was. He was a human, bent and dented underneath vicious hands and bloodshed -_

Because ghosts did not cry.


	8. VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> stuart's funeral.
> 
>  **warnings** : grief, ptsd, mentions of past character deaths, suicidal thoughts/ideation, suicide attempt, some harsh language regarding it, depression, panic attacks (briefly during the party scene and then the end)

By the day of Stuart’s funeral, Neil had retreated so far into himself, all that was left of him were mere shadows and paper skin.

He was there, but he wasn’t _there_. And Jean couldn’t do much, because the best and worst thing he _could_ do was let Neil bear the brunt of the storm on his own.

Because they were both soldiers before, and they both knew what it had taken them to get through the war, whatever it was that they were fighting against. No matter how many bodies were used as shields, the bullet would always find its way home. And no matter how many people were there in the aftermath, healing was a thing - a monster, an elusive friend, a fleeting dream - that only you could grasp yourself.

Grief was slow on Neil - it wasn’t the sudden break and subsequent wreckage that Jean had faced. It was all-consuming, first smiting the life in his eyes, then stealing away each star he held in his chest, one-by-one. Jean knew the impermanence of it, that eventually, sometimes weeks, sometimes years later, it would start relenting its cruel hold.

But he also knew the sheer power it had to turn the entire world black-and-white, blinding the eyes of any color left.

The sky of upstate New York was dim and heavy with promised rainfall. Neil stood between Jean and Allison, staring blankly at the ebony of Stuart’s dark casket. His eyes were awful and blank - Jean knew he was seeing something other than the disquieting emptiness of the funeral. He glanced at Allison, whose stoic face was shielded by black netting and feathers. But she must’ve felt the weight of Jean’s gaze, because she shook her head just minutely.

_Wait it out._

Drizzle was just beginning to flutter down, and the sky had turned into a strange shade of dull pink from the sunsets hidden behind the clouds, when the minister arrived. He looked hastily put together as he came to stand by the casket, his face twisted in not a look of grief, but a look of worry.

He said something about the weather to Allison, who brushed him off.

“Wait ten more minutes,” she murmured, glancing at the empty streets behind them. The drizzle thickened, growing into a steady downpour, as she spoke.

Jean blinked the rain out of his eyes, clenching his jaw against the cold. The minister had somehow gotten an umbrella while he had been distracted, but he didn’t try to share it with anyone. He merely stood there, tapping his foot, conspicuously checking his golden wristwatch every now and then when nobody else showed up.

They must’ve stood there for hours, drenched to the bone from the sudden storm. Droplets slid off the smooth wood of Stuart’s casket, pooling like blood on the ground around it. Eventually Allison relented, dipping her head as if she was conceding defeat. Rainwater rolled off the edges of her hat as she stepped forward, muttering something to the minister. He nodded and straightened, spent maybe four measly minutes uttering something about Stuart passing on, before exchanging words with Allison again. She didn’t look at him as he basically dashed back into his car, the slam of the door the loudest thing in the world.

Then it was just the three of them left, staring at the lonely life and lonely end of Stuart Hatford.

Allison spun around, taking a deep breath.

“It’s the damn rain,” she muttered through gritted teeth. “It has to be. It wasn’t supposed to rain today.”

Neil gave no sign of hearing her.

“Shall we stay?” Jean asked, his voice beginning to waver slightly as the cold bit incessantly into his bones. Allison glanced at him, her jaw taut.

“It’s too dangerous to drive anywhere like this.” She returned to Neil’s side, glaring at Stuart’s casket like somehow she could make him come back to life with sheer willpower.

Beside Jean, Neil closed his eyes, swayed slightly. The rain rolling down his cheeks stained the front of his suit, ruining the immaculately pressed fiber. His lips moved silently, like he was muttering his own sort of prayer, one that the minister couldn’t have possibly known. Jean looked away.

Suddenly, Allison reached up and grabbed her hat, throwing it against the muddied ground. Rain immediately drenched her immaculate curls, rolling in droplets down her face.

They looked too much like angry tears.

“The poor son of a bitch,” she said harshly. “They used to bow at his feet.”

 

\--

 

The procession halted at a secluded spot in the cemetery. Mud oozed from between the grass underneath Jean’s shoes, staining the pathways as they made their way back to the car. The rain had only stopped half an hour ago, leaving them soaked through and cold.

Allison opened the car door for Neil, brushing her damp hair away from her face, while Jean tried in vain to get rid of the dirt on his soles. That was when Neil spoke, for the first time in the entire day.

“Take me to Baltimore.”

Jean froze, and Allison made a harsh, strangled noise. Neil was unaffected, only slowly dragging his hollow stare up from the darkened pavement to meet his friend’s shocked glare. He’d stopped shivering by then, but Jean wasn’t sure if it was because the rain had stopped, or because he had grown numb to the world.

Allison’s eyes briefly flicked to Jean, before she snapped her mouth shut, clenching her jaw. Stepping away from the side of the car, she let the door slam shut.

“Neil,” she said quietly, approaching him and reaching out. Neil didn’t move, so she tentatively rested her hands on his shoulders. “ _Abram_. You don’t want to do that.”

“I think I do,” he replied lowly, his voice too even.

Distress cracked open Allison’s neutral mask. She cupped Neil’s cheeks in her hands, dipping her head down so they were eye-level. “Abram,” she repeated. “Don’t do that to yourself. This is hard enough already, I - ”

“This isn’t about me.” Neil stepped away from her grip, his gaze meeting Jean’s for the briefest moment. The stitches in his hastily fashioned mask were quickly unraveling, and Jean could see the sheer melancholy pressed down behind flimsy fabric. It ran deep from his bones.

Then Neil was turning back to Allison. His voice cracked slightly - but just enough - as he murmured, “ _Please_.”

Jean could see the war ravaging her expression, the push-and-pull of _do-this-for-him_ , and _don’t-let-him-do-this-to-himself_. In the distance, the clouds split apart, just a little, revealing the empty sky behind.

(There was no point in looking for anyone in the stars that night).

Eventually Allison’s shoulders sagged, and she closed her eyes.

“Okay,” she conceded, though it wasn’t a victory for anyone. “Okay. But Jean and I are coming.”

Neil didn’t protest, only nodding curtly and getting into the car himself. Jean stared after him, his head suddenly spinning with everything that was happening. Then he glanced at Allison.

“Abram?” he asked, unsure of what else to say. She met his gaze steadily, her lips twitching in the traces of a frown.

“His middle name that his mother gave him,” she explained quietly. “It’s - you don’t throw it around lightly.”

Jean nodded, tucking the information away for later, before opening his mouth again. “Are you sure - ”

“No. No, I’m not.” Allison shook her head, sighing. Suddenly she looked so weary. “But if that’s what brings him some closure, at least a little, then so be it.”

She didn’t wait for Jean to get into the car before walking around to the driver’s seat herself. He hesitated only a moment longer, glancing up at the sky, at the sheer vastness of it. The clouds still obscured most of it, but Jean thought that in the midst of the darkness, he could see one tiny star poking through.

It wasn’t anyone he recognized, though.

He tugged open the door and sat down next to Neil, whose lips twitched languidly at his arrival. Like he was trying to remember how to smile, but the puppet strings holding him up had snapped, and he just couldn’t find the muscle memory anymore. Jean didn’t say anything, only resting his hand in between them as he reached into his pockets, grabbing two cigarettes and a lighter. He set both aflame, before handing one off to Neil.

His lover cradled it like it was his only lifeline. He didn’t breathe it in, only holding it close to his face while staring into space.

Allison was heading down the wide road an hour later when Jean felt Neil curl his pinky around his own. He didn’t glance at Neil, only tilting his hand back so he could rub his thumb gently across Neil’s roughened knuckles.

The car smelled like smoke and a sort of rare, unforgiving homesickness.

 

\--

 

“That’s it.”

Allison’s voice was quiet as she leaned forward to shut the engine off. They’d been driving for three, maybe four hours - not once did Jean let go of Neil’s hand. His fingers felt slightly clammy as his lover slipped away from his grip, stepping out of the car without a word.

Jean followed him, closing the door as softly as he could, heading around the trunk to join Neil on the pavement.

Looming in front of them was the silhouette of an empty house, only about a quarter the size of Neil’s. Moonlight highlighted the metal window frames and light walls, somehow softening the sharp look of everything. The stairs leading up to the front door, shut tightly, were nearly covered in overgrown grass, dust, and thick memories.

Footsteps behind them signaled Allison’s approach. She stood next to Neil, flanking him like at any moment, she was ready to jump in front of him and shield him from the view of the terrible house.

Neil didn’t say anything, but his silence was enough.

He moved slowly, one foot in front of the other, and began approaching the metal gates fencing off the house. Allison twitched like she wanted to protest, but Jean shook his head slightly.

(It was almost trance-like, the way Neil kept shifting to and fro. Jean remembered how it had felt to return to his own home, his _original_ home, only to find it bereft of any life at all. He remembered how everything had left him in a rush, how close he’d fallen on his knees and pressed his forehead against the very carpet that Adalie used to run barefoot across).

Neil fell to his knees too, once he’d swung the metal gate open with an obnoxious screech and stepped inside the wilting garden. His head was bowed as he pressed a hand against something on the ground - it looked like someone had written something on the pathway. Then he started wiping at it, erasing whatever it was that he’d seen there - maybe it was an unwanted memory - and then curled in on himself.

Jean approached him first, and Allison let him. He crouched down at Neil’s side, not touching him, but letting his presence be known. Neil was trembling slightly, his palm scratched up and bleeding in some spots from where the skin had torn against the cement. Somehow his paper mask hadn’t broken yet.

(But delayed reactions were powerful things. And graves didn’t have to have headstones to be graves).

Neil shifted slightly, lifting his head. He stared up at the house, at the front door, and something black flickered in his blank eyes. It looked like anger, maybe even hatred.

“I hate him.” His voice was tattered and barely audible. “I hate him. I...I _h-hate_ him.”

Jean shut his eyes at the animalistic pain bleeding through Neil’s words. He stopped speaking, the only sound for a few seconds being his suddenly heavy breathing.

Then Allison came, sitting down next to Neil. Tucking her knees to her chest, she glared up at the house like she could burn it down from sheer force of will. Neil covered his mouth with his hands, tipping forward to press his forehead against the ground. Jean settled down, pressing his knee against Neil’s in silent solidarity.

They sat together well into the night, like three solid shadows come from hell.

 

\--

 

Allison was the one to push Jean away toward his own home when they got back to New York, just as the daybreak was beginning to pierce through the darkness.

“Get some rest, Moreau,” she said when Jean opened his mouth to protest. “You’ve done more than enough already. You didn’t even have to come to the funeral.”

“I haven’t though.”

The words fell onto the ground beneath them and shattered - because they both knew that Jean was right.

For the time being, nothing they did would be enough. When loss ripped a hole through the world, mere bandages and hasty stitches were never enough to patch up the gaping wound left behind. The only thing they could do was take care of the injury, the bone-deep hurt, as best they could, without letting it become infected.

Allison sighed, lowering her hands. The sound of the door closing in the distance meant Neil had already gone inside. She glanced in his direction, before fixing her gaze back on Jean.

“There’s nothing more you can do right now,” she reasoned quietly. “Even so, you’re no use if you’re dead on your feet.”

He tried to protest again, before being cut of by a yawn. Allison raised her eyebrows as he rubbed his eyes and sighed sharply. Suddenly his muscles felt heavy and numb as belated exhaustion washed over him. It wasn’t just a physical tiredness, but a world-weariness - the residue of cruelty and humanity that just left anyone _drained_ in its wake.

Allison’s expression flickered with understanding when she met Jean’s eyes. She pressed her lips together in a thin, tight smile.

“It’s going to be a lot, you know,” she said after a few moments. “Now that Stuart’s gone, the power has shifted. The Hatford Syndicate needs to go on, keep growing, and they have to find a new head.”

It took a minute for the implications to fully dawn on Jean, and when they did, he felt his heart stutter.

“They wouldn’t ask Neil, would they?”

Allison shrugged stiffly. “He’s the closest relative to the Hatfords since Mary died. Stuart never had any children, and his brothers are either too inexperienced or off running their own division.”

“What happens if he...”

“I don’t know, Jean. I don’t know what he’ll do.” Her shoulders sank with her admission. “This was supposed to be a simple operation, you know. None of us were prepared for it.”

“I know.”

“But tomorrow we have to head back upstate to get matters settled.” Casting a glance over her shoulder at the dark outline of Neil’s castle, she pursed her lips. “It might be a while.”

“I’ll be here when you’re ready,” Jean murmured after a short pause.

“I know.” This time, Allison’s mouth twitched in a somewhat genuine smile, though it still sagged at the corners. She started heading down the porch steps, before pausing and glancing back over her shoulder.

“They’re a rotten crowd, you know.” Her eyes glinted intently in the half-moonlight as she wavered. “You’re worth the whole damn bunch put together.”

Jean thought he should’ve objected or at least done _something_ just then. But he was worn out and she looked happy to have said it. Inexplicably, then, he felt himself beginning to smile - just the hesitant start of the strange expression.

Maybe he really _was_ going mad from exhaustion.

She only gazed at him for a few seconds longer, lips twitching in an upturn of her own, before turning back around and heading out of his garden, leaving him alone on the rickety old porch, bathed in the glow of a baby sunrise coming to light.

The living room Jean stepped in to was surprisingly clean, despite the disarray he thought he’d left it in. He didn’t try to tidy anything else up, merely kicking off his shoes and coat before collapsing into his bed.

He was too tired to dream about the war, Adalie, or Neil. He just fell. 

When he woke up again, afternoon light had flooded the room from the open window. Jean blinked sleepiness from his eyes, rubbing his head in an effort to shake the ringing from his ears. It took a few more minutes before he realized the ringing wasn’t from his head, but from the kitchen.

Dragging himself out of bed, he stumbled into the kitchen and clumsily picked up the phone before the last ring.

“Hello?”

“Jean? Why do you sound like you just woke up?”

He blinked again, before straightening up. “Kevin. I just did.”

“Oh. Are you - it’s four o’clock in the afternoon. Should I just drive back myself?”

“You - oh. No, I’ll come. I’m sorry.” He hung up before his friend could say anything else, slamming the phone down. He’d been so caught up in the whirlwind of the past several days that he’d completely forgotten his friend was back in the East Egg that day.

Only pausing to grab his keys, Jean headed to his car, squinting against the bright light. He glanced at Neil’s mansion, only to find its windows completely shut and empty.

He and Allison were gone already.

Swallowing past the tightness in his throat, Jean tried to focus on just pulling away from the driveway and heading toward East Egg. But thoughts of Neil welled up in his mind like blood from an open cut, and Jean had never figured out how to staunch the bleeding.

When Jean finally arrived at Renee and Jeremy’s place, he saw they were all outside in the front garden. Jeremy’s face lit up when he spotted Jean’s car, and he waved cheerfully his way. Kevin was still dressed immaculately, though his tie was rumpled and his shirt was unbuttoned slightly. He raised his eyebrows when Jean approached, looking him over.

“What happened to you?” he asked.

Renee interrupted gently. “Why don’t you two stay for dinner? We have nothing else to do today anyway, and it’s not that late yet.”

“Sure,” Jean said belatedly when he realized everyone else had turned to look at him.

Jeremy led to the pavilion while Kevin stayed behind to match his pace with Jean’s. He undid his tie, tossing it over one shoulder as he asked again, lowly, “Jean. You alright?”

“Yes.” He bumped his shoulder against Kevin’s in reassurance, though it didn’t erase the concern from his friend’s eyes. He didn’t ask any more questions, only sitting down next to Jean as Renee and Jeremy brought out food and wine. Jean gladly accepted the glass Jeremy handed to him, taking a large sip and slumping back. Cool air cradled his body as he shut his eyes, letting the comforting familiarity of his friends’ voices wash over him.

He didn’t know how long they talked for - he let time wash away. Old habits died hard, after all. He kept track of the minutes only by how long it took for him to drain the entire glass of wine before it was refilled again, listening but not remembering as Kevin and Jeremy talked about their trip.

Jean only was jolted back into conversation when he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. He jerked slightly, glancing over to see Renee gazing at him, her expression unreadable.

“Jean,” she started. “You look exhausted. Are you sure you’re alright?”

Her question, though soft, dimmed Kevin and Jeremy’s voices. They glanced over as Jean forced himself to sit up, squeezing his fingers against the glass.

He didn’t want to lie - he really didn’t. He remembered Neil’s drunken words, at Stuart’s very own party as his lover struggled to bear the weight of his own world: _people just lie too much these days._

With a bittersweet taste in his mouth, he replied quietly, “It’s Neil.”

Jeremy frowned. “Neil Josten? What happened?”

Jean’s heart pulsed with a phantom sort of pain, and he had to put his wine glass away before he shattered it in his grip.

“His uncle died,” he finally said after a long minute.

He knew Renee and Jeremy wouldn’t understand the weight of his statement; their faces fell and mouths moved in shock and sympathy. It wasn’t their fault, but they just didn’t know. It was Kevin’s reaction that surprised Jean the most: his friend stiffened, before his hand flew up to cover his mouth.

“ _No_. You are - he - ”

“Neil’s father is dead too.”

Kevin’s eyes, impossibly, grew even wider. “ _Christ_ ,” he breathed, tugging his hair as he struggled to process the information. His expression was a mix between sick relief and numbing shock.

Renee looked between them like she was trying to put together the pieces, while Jeremy shook his head, his face pained.

“Two at once,” he was murmuring as Jean fell silent again. “I can’t imagine that.”

(But Jean could).

Kevin uncapped the wine bottle on the table and unceremoniously poured himself another glass, downing it at once. Jean let him.

Eventually Renee leaned forward, resting her hand on Jean’s.

“This has to be so difficult, I understand,” she said gently, “but please don’t overexert yourself, Jean.”

He blinked at her, eyes flickering down to where their hands touched. “I’m not?” he said dumbly.

Her smile was awfully understanding. “Just because you’re not the one grieving doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to be tired too. It doesn’t mean you can’t feel the pain. You need to take care of Neil, you have to be there when he needs you, but you _must_ take care of yourself too.”

Jeremy nodded his assent, adding, “We’re never going to go through the same things you or Neil have. But we’ll be here if you ever need someone to fall back on. Kevin, too.”

His friend nodded, though his green eyes were still distant as his lips twisted. Jean looked away from both Renee and Jeremy when their earnesty became too much, instead focusing on the view of the bay. His throat felt locked up - too tight - and his chest ached whenever he tried to breathe. The second-hand pain he’d been locking down threatened to well up, and he closed his eyes as he struggled to seal his fractures before it could.

Renee had the good graces to change the subject to something mundane, something meaningless, when Jean didn’t talk for another minute.

(Sometimes you forget how long you’ve been drowning until air finally jolts back into your aching lungs).

((That is when you start hyperventilating)).

 

\--

 

“So you know everything now?” Kevin stood in the doorway to Jean’s bedroom, watching as Jean fiddled around with the sheets. He didn’t have to say anything else to know his friend was talking about Neil.

He sighed, sitting down heavily. “Not everything. Just enough.”

Kevin shifted awkwardly, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he finally said, voice stilted.

“You didn’t do anything.”

“I could have told you.”

Jean glanced at his friend. “It wasn’t your story to tell. You were doing the right thing.”

Kevin still looked pained, rocking back on his heels. Wringing his hands, he stared at Jean for a few more moments, like he was struggling to figure out something to say. Biting his lip, he asked, “You’re okay with everything?”

“I am.” Jean spoke without second thought.

Gazing at him a minute longer, Kevin eventually nodded to himself and stepped away, allowing Jean his space.

“Call me if you need anything,” he said, waiting for Jean to nod in assent, before retreating to his own bedroom.

For a while afterwards, things would have seemed normal. Kevin went to work with Jeremy, leaving Jean to his own devices for the rest of the day, and then when he came back they ate dinner together and talked. The only thing missing was _Neil_.

Maybe two or three days passed before he and Allison finally returned. But Jean didn’t hear anything from either of them until the end of the week, when he came home with Kevin only to see Neil’s streets, once again, packed with cars and guests. The neighborhood was bathed in the pink afterglow off the sun-dipped bay.

Kevin glanced at Jean as they pulled into their driveway. “You know what that’s all about?”

“No,” Jean said distractedly as he watched an extravagantly dressed couple saunter across Neil’s overgrown lawn, drifting right through the open doors. He couldn’t help the concern that flared in his chest - everything seemed far too lively, almost too familiar to be natural.

They gazed at the scene in silence for a few moments, before Kevin finally moved to turn off the engine.

“Go.”

“What?” Jean belatedly shifted his gaze toward his friend.

“You know him better than I do, at this point.” Kevin gestured toward the crowded street, lips pursing. “But his family is dead. This is him grieving.”

Jean only hesitated for a moment before getting out of the car, muttering something about calling Kevin later, before heading down the sidewalk.

He was terribly underdressed, with only a regular shirt and slacks, compared to the elaborate glitter and glamor of everyone else. But he didn’t find it in him to care as he pushed through the crowd, nimbly slipping by the butler stationed at the door.

The moment he stepped inside, he was greeted with warmth and the familiar scent of champagne. Jean ignored the few looks that were tossed his way as he maneuvered around the walls, clenching his fists in his trousers as he looked around for anyone he recognized. But he was surrounded by strangers, faces all stretched in brilliantly empty grins, and he saw no one.

Jean moved aside to let one couple pass through, pressing his back to the wall. Then he started to head up the stairs, quickening his pace when he noticed the emptiness of the hallways there. Jean instinctively found Neil’s bedroom, poking his head inside, but it was empty. So was every other room.

Eventually he resorted to asking around once again. As soon as he opened his mouth to ask the first lady he saw the question, he was slammed with a wave of déjà vu.

(Except that was when Neil had merely been a shapeless cloud in Jean’s head, not a body of constellations and chipped wonder).

“Do you know where Neil Josten is?” he forced himself to ask when the lady quirked her eyebrow.

“No. Sorry, darling,” she said into her glass. Jean bit his lip harshly but thanked her anyway, before turning around and letting himself get lost in the crowd again.

He tried again and again, for maybe hours, and kept failing. Everyone he asked just shrugged and looked away - away from the messes they caused, the vases they knocked over, and the brokenness the mansion had been built upon in the first place. It was almost enough to make Jean angry, though it was an anger derived from throbbing anxiety.

He had just stepped outside when he jumped at the unmistakable noise of explosions. He inhaled sharply as he whirled around, his heart spinning as he looked around for the noise.

They were merely fireworks, staining the dark sky with shimmering colors and glory.

He sat down heavily, forcing himself to breathe. It’d been a long time since he’d been scared like that, since he’d been so close to panic - but the sound was so unexpected he almost expected to open his eyes and see the shambles of a detonated bomb at his feet. His head hurt as he pinched himself harshly, shutting his eyes tightly as he waited for the anxiety to fade away.

He lost track of how long he sat there, struggling to convince himself that the bombs weren’t real, that they were just celebratory fireworks; they weren’t showering debris, they were showering glitter and bright orange. When he finally calmed down enough, the yard was mostly empty, as everyone had either left or moved inside.

Jean forced himself to stand up, his legs numb and weak, and glanced around slowly. It was disconcerting, how much time he’d lost and how suddenly quiet everything was. When he looked up, the flashes of fireworks were gone, replaced by thin trails of smoke snaking toward the horizon.

Shakily, he headed back inside. There were still a few stragglers, and one glance at the clock told him it was almost ten. He spotted the same butler at the door, and headed toward him.

“Excuse me,” he said quietly. The man glanced at him.

“Sorry. You need to leave early,” the butler said curtly. “Mr. Josten’s request.”

“I need to find him.”

“He wants to be alone tonight.” The man’s impassive face twitched slightly, like he didn’t believe in his own words. “He ordered all of us to leave. Everyone. Might as well have fired me.”

Jean pushed, “Where is Matt? And Allison?”

“Who are _you_?”

“I’m his - ” His voice caught jaggedly in his throat.  The butler raised his eyebrows again, and Jean swallowed harshly. “I’m his friend and neighbor.”

“I’m sorry, sir. _None_ of us are supposed to be here tonight.” He shrugged, though he didn’t look particularly regretful.

“Then make an exception.”

“John?”

Both of them glanced over to see Matt standing in the garden, hands tucked inside his pockets. His eyes widened minutely when he spotted Jean.

“Matthew,” John said. “I thought you left.”

“Allison needs us to meet her upstate to help organize Mr. Hatford’s things. Could you help start up the car?”

The butler, John, stared at his partner through narrow eyes, before huffing shortly and leaving. Matt watched him leave, before heading up the stairs to meet Jean by the entrance.

“You told me he didn’t set off fireworks unless he was having a good day,” Jean said quietly as Matt approached him.

“No. He doesn’t.” Matt sighed, his shoulders sagging, before smiling tightly. “Listen. He does this sometimes, where he just orders everyone to leave so that he is alone for the night. None of us can do anything about it - in the end, I still work for him.”

“So you will just leave whenever he asks, whatever the reason?”

“We do, but you don’t have to.” There was a tight, pinched smile on Matt’s face as he spoke. He paused for a moment, like he was thinking, and began to back away, before adding, “He may be at the pier or the pool, if he’s not in his room.”

Jean only watched silently as Matt dipped his head and left, following John out the garden. He bit his lip and wiped his hands, before stepping back and letting the door slam shut for a final time.

 

\--

 

The only things lighting up the now-empty mansion were the lamps and moon. Haunting the air was a ringing sort of silence. Jean made his way through the hallways and rooms, stepping over the remnants of confetti and the occasional shattered champagne glass.

Everything slowed in the afterglow of quiet. It was too slow - the aftermath of a whirlwind of activity dying down too quickly.

Some of the windows were still open, allowing the drafts through. The only noises echoing down the hallways were Jean’s footsteps and the silk curtains shifting in the autumn breeze. Jean paused by the doors overlooking the pier.

For a brief, fleeting moment, he could imagine Neil standing at the edge of the dock, like the very first time he’d seen him. He could imagine his lover threatening to tip into the bay, arms outstretched as he traced the constellations at his fingertips, smoke rising like a dream from his lips.

But he wasn’t there.

Jean turned away, glancing at the clock again. Only a half hour had passed, but it felt like an eternity.

He began making his way down to the pool, carefully avoiding the broken glass.

When he finally reached the room, the pool was eerily empty, the only noise echoing against the walls the occasional drop and ripple in the water. Starlight filtered through the open ceiling, bathing everything in a soft silvery glow. Reflections of water danced across the marbled walls like delicate cobwebs. If he listened closely, Jean thought he could hear the ghosts of partygoers and firework explosions.

And then he looked down, and he saw him.

Neil was sitting at the edge of his pool, staring at the clear waters. He was dressed almost immaculately, like he’d come back from the Hatfords’ meeting and hadn’t bothered to do anything ever since. The light reflecting off the water lit his auburn hair on fire. Jean was about to step forward and say something, maybe call out his name, when his eyes fell even further, and -

There was a bloodied knife by Neil’s side.

Jean froze as soon as he saw it, the crimson - fresh - gleaming on the edge of the blade. Something cold and _dreadful_ draped over his shoulders when he registered the stiffness of Neil’s movements as he turned, the way he was clutching tightly at his wrist with one hand.

 

_No._

 

“ _Neil_.” Any inhibitions flew out of Jean’s mind the moment he put everything together. He fell to his knees beside Neil, grabbing his injured wrist. Neil didn’t say or do anything, only watching blankly as Jean shoved aside the knife and inspected the cut. He didn’t even flinch when Jean pressed down on it harshly, only detachedly watching his own blood drip down his arm and stain the pristine marble.

It wasn’t a fatal cut - but it still bled a lot, and it was long. Jean didn’t stop to think twice before reaching down and ripping off a piece of his own sleeve, wrapping it tightly around Neil’s wrist and pressing down. Red bled through the fabric in patches, flowering eerily like cherry blossoms. When Jean moved his hands, his own palms were smothered with Neil’s blood.

He shut his eyes, inhaling shakily. “You’re going to need stitches,” he murmured once he was sure the makeshift bandage was in place, thumbs brushing along Neil’s skin.

When the silence snapped and his lover finally spoke again, his voice was too heavy and far too listless.

“Why did you come?” he asked lowly, fingers twitching slightly. Jean glanced up at him incredulously.

“I had to find you,” he said.

Neil shut his eyes tightly, lips twisted viciously as he gritted out, “ _Stop_ fucking finding me.”

There was a hidden plea somewhere in there, but all Jean could hear was _too late, too late, too late_. He imagined this was what Bastien’s mother felt like after finding her son floating facedown in their pool, blood staining the waters crimson - _too late, too late, too late_.

Jean countered Neil’s vicious words with brutality of his own.

“You weren’t even going to leave a note.”

Neil’s hand began to shake. He didn’t look at Jean as he snapped, “I told you before. I hate notes. Didn’t want to force Allison to write this one, did I? I am not _that_ cruel.”

“Stop lying.”

“You weren’t supposed to come.”

Jean breathed, “ _Why_?”

His lover’s eyes were oddly watery as he glared at the unstained pool. His jaw clenched and then unclenched, his breath a quiet, feverish gasp, as he breathed, “They’re making me take his place.”

_And that was his nightmare, wasn’t it?_

Jean glanced at the knife that he’d kicked across the room. It lay on the marble tiles, some of the blood dripping onto the floor in too-round droplets. Neil followed Jean’s gaze, before scoffing brokenly.

“A Wesninski who can’t handle a knife right,” he murmured. “Who would’ve known?”

Jean’s eyes snapped back to his lover. “Wesninski?”

Neil murmured, “My real name.” He winced like saying it hurt him more than taking a blade to his wrist had. “Sorry you had to find out this way.”

Jean shook his head. “You are a fool if you think I give a damn about who you used to be.”

“I was named after my father. I was his legacy.” Neil’s fingers twitched as he glanced down at his hastily bandaged wrist, his voice soft and weak. “But now they want me in their circle.”

“So you thought it was a good idea to - what - slit your wrists? Bleed yourself out in your own pool?” Jean couldn’t help the anger rising up his throat - he knew where it was coming from. Probably the graveyard he held right in the center of his chest, where the bodies of Adalie and Bastien and everyone else he’d been too late to save lay. It was so intense that it _hurt_ \- it burned in his ribs as he imagined overturning the earth for one more body, one more love lost. It nearly consumed him entirely.

Neil glanced up at him, lips twisting. Jean looked away, forcing himself to calm down. When his breathing evened out again, his lover finally whispered, “I want _him_ to die too.”

It didn’t take long to realize that he was talking about the part of his father that still resided in him.

(He knew how to handle war. He knew how to hold a weapon. And he knew how to read the stars and aim a gun and measure the night by the ocean waves).

((But this was trench warfare - a brutal stalemate of _please-don’t-go_ and _this-is-the-only-way-out_. And Jean was always more familiar with the rocky seas than the cruel winter land)).

He lowered Neil’s hand and delicately brushed their fingers together. Life, as faint as it was, still ran warmly beneath his skin.

“I just keep taking and _taking_. They’re _dead_ because of me,” Neil kept saying. “The people I cared about - they were just shields, and I let them get shot at. The Hatfords don’t know what guilt is. They only care that I bring them war. And now I’m taking over the very thing my mother and I ran away from in the first place.”

Jean shook his head.

“You can’t expect to save everyone.”

Neil smiled - it was every inch bitter and self-deprecating, void like a starless night in the summer - and glanced down at where Jean was still holding his wrist.

“Tell that to yourself.”

_Maybe the truth wasn’t a gunshot after all, but a dagger slipped through the ribs. Cruel and unexpected - look down, drop your weapons. Let it stay between your lungs and your heart forever - because to take it out would mean to bleed yourself out, and end everything else._

There was nothing else Jean could do but watch as Neil’s smile slowly dissipated, and he began to draw his hand away.

“Abram,” he murmured again. His lover’s shoulders sagged as he flexed his fingers slowly. His movements had to have hurt, but he was numb to everything by now. “Look at me, please.”

“You weren’t supposed to be here,” Neil whispered harshly. “This was supposed to be a goodbye.”

 _No,_ he wasn’t going to lose it there. He didn’t want the hindsight, didn’t want the ending. He only breathed in shakily as he steadied himself, before shifting so he was in Neil’s line of vision again.

“Abram,” he said. When Neil didn’t look at him, Jean reached out and brushed his fingers under his lover’s chin, tilting his head up. Neil’s chest heaved with trembling breaths.

Jean brushed his thumb over a faint scar on Neil’s chin. “There is nothing good I can say, _mon ange_ ,” he murmured, his throat tight and painful. “I have no good reason to make you stay. That is something you have to find yourself. But I did tell you to keep fighting, didn’t I?”

“ _Jean_ ,” Neil muttered, squeezing his eyes shut.

“I _can_ offer you this,” he promised. “You just don’t know how to die quietly, _mon ange._   _That_ is why you have to keep fighting.”

For several long minutes, the only noise between the two of them came from Neil’s quivering breathing. All the while, Jean stayed there, holding his lover’s bandaged wrist lightly, waiting the storm out.

Eventually Neil made a noise that sounded too much like a strangled sob. Jean looked up as he pressed a fist against his mouth like he wanted to smother the sound, his shoulders shaking hard. Getting up onto his knees, Jean combed a hand through Neil’s hair and tugged him close.

“Come to your bedroom with me, okay?” he whispered, pressing his lips to Neil’s head. “You still need stitches.”

His lover shuddered, his uninjured arm coming up to fist Jean’s shirt. They didn’t stand just yet, only leaning into each other as their hearts trembled with the terror of an almost-loss. Jean rested his hand on Neil’s neck, kissing his temple slowly.

Together, their shadows looked like a quivering hyacinth.

 

\--

 

When Jean came back with medical supplies, Neil was already curled up in his bed, staring blankly out the window. He sat down by his side, running a hand lightly across his arm.

“A drink?” Jean held up the half-finished bottle of whiskey he’d found in the kitchen, and Neil’s eyes sluggishly followed his movements. Then he slowly sat up, reaching out for the bottle while Jean took his hand. He took a large swig, eyes fluttering shut as Jean carefully unpeeled the makeshift bandage and set it aside.

Needle and thread were as familiar to Jean as a gun and a bullet. He rested Neil’s hand carefully against his thigh, before starting to stitch the cut together.

Unflinching despite the needle threading in and out of his skin, Neil drank from the bottle one more time before setting it on the bedside table. The only sign he was in pain was the controlled exhale he let out from between clenched teeth.

Apparently this was routine - muscle memory - for the both of them.

Jean finished the stitches several minutes later, wiping away the dried blood and wrapping fresh bandages around Neil’s wrist.

“Get some rest,” he murmured when they were done. “I’ll be here.”

Neil suddenly looked so exhausted, his eyes shadowed as he quietly slurred, “‘M sorry.”

Jean paused as he was gathering the supplies, straightening up slowly to see his lover slumping over, injured wrist held close against his chest. Neil dug his fingers harshly into his arm.

When he didn’t say anything else, Neil asked again, wearily, “You’re not making me explain?”

Jean’s fingers tightened painfully around the bottle of whiskey, but he shook his head.

“I won’t make you say anything.”

It was the release Neil needed. He closed his eyes as all his breath left him in one tremulous sigh. Jean gazed at him for a moment longer, before quietly slipping out of the room to put everything away.

He was halfway up the stairs again when everything hit him with the force of a cannon ball.

All the panic he’d been holding back for Neil’s sake surged back up, crawling up his throat like bile. He sank to his knees, pressing his back against the railing as his lungs clenched in his chest.

(He thought he knew loss. He _did_. But that was all he knew: the completion of the cycle, the ending of the life).

((What he didn’t know was the _almost_ loss)).

And it threatened to carve Jean inside out, gnawing at his chest because _you could have lost him you could have lost him you could have lost him_.

Again.

He coughed harshly into the crook of his elbow, digging his fingernails into his own wrist. His heartbeat throbbed in his temples as he struggled to breathe. Everything was collapsing down on him, but his shoulders were fine. But they were breaking at the same goddamn time.

 _Fucking breathe, you bastard_. Bastien’s voice ricocheted through Jean’s fracturing mind, and he nearly laughed at the absurdity and irony of it. But it was enough to shatter the grip panic held on him, and he gasped. The first burst of air burned his lungs, but slowly the tightness of his chest began to subside as he inhaled shakily.

He didn’t know how much time he’d lost to his panic, but by the time he stretched out his legs again his knees ached dully. Jean forced himself to his feet, looking down at his hands. They were trembling.

Neil’s door was half-open, and when Jean tentatively pushed it open, he spotted his lover still lying on the bed. His shoulders rose and fell with his breaths, his dark lashes fanning across his cheeks with a false sort of peace.

Jean slipped past him, picking up the phone sitting by the window. He dialed the number as quietly as he could, closing his eyes and digging his fingers into his side as he waited for Kevin to pick up. His head still hurt vaguely, though the ache dimmed the more he breathed.

“Hello?”

He exhaled shakily, turning away from Neil as he whispered, “Kevin. It’s Jean.”

“Jean?” His friend sounded more awake. “Is everything okay?”

“I won’t be home tonight,” Jean murmured. “I’m going to stay with Neil.”

“Neil. Is he - ”

“No. He’s asleep right now. Just don’t worry about me, alright?”

Kevin sighed after a short pause. “Jean, I’m always going to worry about you.”

Lips twitching in a listless smile, he murmured, “I can’t help you then.”

“Take care of yourself, Moreau.”

“I will.” Jean sighed quietly, before slipping the phone back on the hook. He glanced at Neil, eyes catching on the flash of white against his wrist.

Moonlight pooled like blood over the floor, flooding the room in a watery sort of silence. Jean listened to the sound of Neil’s breaths - stilted and occasionally stumbling over one another - as he twitched in his restless sleep.

 _The aftermath of war was always worse than the actual fight._ Everybody knew that.

(Here: the remnants of your struggle. Here: the blood on the floor and your skin. Here: the graveyard garden you planted last year, gone).

(( _Here_ : your helplessness as you watch everything you knew and loved break - ravaged, _destroyed_ )).

He wished he could take Neil’s pain away. But if there was one thing he’d learned as a soldier, it was this: _the fight never ends, even when the bloodshed does - the war will keep taking, taking, taking, and all you can do is pick up the battle-ravaged fragments and keep going, going, going._

It was a lesson, rooted in agony and strife, carved too deeply into the walls of Jean’s heart for him to ever forget.

But right then, with the moonlight illuminating Neil’s delicate eyelids and slight frown, he could only think about how he _wished_ there was something more he could do. Something other than just crouch in the raw grip of _after_ , watching the fine snow turn cherry-blossom-pink as it drifted onto the crimson-stained ground.

He eventually moved from his place by the window and settled down beside his lover, the rustling noise of his body against the bedsheets waking Neil up. His eyes still looked more hazy in the light than piercing blue as they fluttered open, worn-down and dusty with some exquisite kind of sadness. Jean wondered if he could bottle up that sadness and lock it away in a wine cellar forever. The stars had wilted from Neil’s irises, yet Jean reached out, an offer.

After a few long moments of consideration, Neil slowly moved to take Jean’s hand. Their fingers laced together, scarred palms pressing against one another. Then Jean shifted closer, pressing his lips tentatively to the top of Neil’s head as the man below him shuddered.

 _Alive. They were both still here_.

“You’re alright,” he murmured. It was a hollow reassurance, maybe more for himself, but a half-truth nonetheless.

They laid together in the quiet, listening to the distant brush of the waves drag along the beach through the open window. Neil’s breathing evened out, but he didn’t fall asleep again.

“Jean,” he mumbled after several long minutes.

“Mm.”

“The lights.” Jean began to trace his fingers along Neil’s cheek, as his lover rested his bandaged wrist over Jean’s chest. “When the lights are out, when everything is quiet - that is where I can break. When they don’t see it.”

He closed his eyes, resting his hand lightly over Neil’s.

“You’ve been silent this whole time, haven’t you?” Jean murmured, brushing his lips against Neil’s temple. “You don’t have to be anymore.”

Neil had that expression on his face, like he was ready to tear apart all his stitches just to reveal his worst, unhealed wounds as misplaced payment. His lips twisted for a brief moment, before he defeatedly said, “I’ll give you my name. My - my real name.”

Jean gently pressed his fingertips to his lover’s lips before he could say anything else.

“I don’t need to know it.”

The look that crossed Neil’s face just then threatened to cleave Jean in half.

“But - ”

“Neil Abram Josten is more than enough.” He traced his finger delicately across the scar on Neil’s upper lip, before pulling away.

“You will find out sooner or later,” his lover mumbled, sinking against Jean’s side.

“So be it then.”

A fractured moment passed, before he murmured Jean’s name again.

“I’m here.”

His lover’s breath trembled from where his face was turned against Jean’s neck. His voice was muffled when he asked brokenly, “Don’t you blame yourself for your sister’s death?”

So they were going to talk about it _now_.

It was a question so blunt it should’ve been rude. It punched Jean’s words right out of his chest, leaving him raw and trembly. He inhaled shakily, moving so that Neil’s head rested against his arm and he could run his fingers through his hair. Shutting his eyes, he let his lover’s words sink in, etch themselves carefully into his skeleton, before even thinking about replying.

(He still had a long way to go for coming to terms with both Adalie and Bastien’s deaths. The only thing Jean had for closure was: it wasn’t his fault they had died, no matter how guilty he felt).

((That knowledge was his life jacket. He was still freezing, but he was floating, and he could breathe. It was _enough_ )).

Allison had been right. Neil would take the blame for everything, no matter how rational or irrational it was. That kind of martyrdom could only be born out of cruel conditioning, and wasn’t a habit that could easily be broken.

And it was a habit that had nearly killed him in the end.

(Jean’s breath shook in his lungs as he glanced down at his hands, at the rope-burn desperation - the _almost_ loss that had threatened to snuff him out. Sometimes he blinked and he thought things were different - that Neil wasn’t really _there_ , that he really _was_ a ghost Jean had just conjured up out of delusional grief, and -

Neil was a ghost trapped within human bones - fleshy, human heart illuminating ghostly hands.

He was still there. He was a light that never went out, but he flickered here and there - everywhere).

Jean brushed some of Neil’s hair away from his forehead, tucking the wayward curls behind his ear. He memorized the warmth of his lover’s skin underneath his fingertips.

“I do, sometimes,” he murmured. “When she first died, all I could think about was how it was my fault. I was blinded by my own grief and hurt. I thought the world would stop the moment she died, but it didn’t.”

He leaned down, pressing his lips to Neil’s temple - it wasn’t a kiss, but it was close enough. He murmured, “People may be cruel, but the world is indifferent. It doesn’t stop or start for anyone. For people like us, it seems like sometimes absolutely no one is looking out for us. Like the universe is hellbent on just taking everything.”

Neil hummed wanly, lightly tracing the scar running across the back of Jean’s knuckles.

“I’m not going to be like the others and tell you that everything happens for a reason. Because that’s not true. You didn’t ask for Stuart to die. There’s no justifiable reason as to why he had to die.”  Neil flinched at the mention of his uncle, but Jean continued on anyway, softly. “ _I_ didn’t ask for Adalie to die. There is no good reason anyone could ever give me that would convince me she died for a reason.

“Because that’s the way the world works. Sometimes the best people are picked right off, and the worst people get to live the longest. It’s completely random. You cannot predict it. There is nothing you _can_ do besides endure and live.” Jean traced his fingers over Neil’s temple again, feeling the way his lover was beginning to tremble against his body.

“Jean.” His name, broken and tight, escaped from between clenched teeth.

“Abram,” he whispered. “You can’t protect everyone.”

“I have to _try_ ,” Neil bit out.

“I know.” It had taken years for Jean to accept this fact, and it would still take even longer for it to feel less _wrong_. “But you were made into a weapon and thrown into war,” he said, throat aching with the memory of past words and phantom pains. “It is not your fault that war keeps haunting you.”

Neil finally whispered, his voice defeated and frail, after what felt like eons of silence, “I want to believe that.”

“Then I will tell you every day until you can.”

“Won’t you get tired of it?”

Jean leaned down, squeezing Neil’s hand gently. He laid a tender kiss against Neil’s forehead, carding his fingers through his hair.

“ _Mon ange_ ,” he murmured, slow and sure. “We’ll survive, you and I.”

And that was the other truth: the flowers blooming through the hole left behind by the knife. The cherry blossoms that tickled the ashen lungs, the spring that always came - no matter how late.  


	9. IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jean thinks back to all the things he's ever learned. they celebrate the new year.
> 
>  **warnings** : referenced suicide attempt, extensive discussions of grief and trauma, depression, references to war, ptsd
> 
> and healing.

The year ended far too abruptly. Even in the pristine December days, Jean still remembered the weary September like the memories were etched permanently into his mind.

Allison had come back a day later only to find Jean and Neil lying together on the bed, fast asleep. Neil was too tired to wake up when she jostled Jean awake, only twitching slightly and frowning. Sleep still heavy on his temples, Jean slowly slipped out from underneath Neil, following Allison out the room.

Her face was stony as she closed the door gently, before she held up a bloody knife. Any exhaustion Jean felt seeped away when he recognized it. 

“What is this?” Allison asked. She didn’t sound angry - her voice shook in a way Jean had never heard it. He tried grasping for delicate words, anything to soften the blow, but the look on Allison’s face told him she already knew what it meant. Her eyes only darkened when Jean remained silent.

“He’s safe,” Jean said instead when Allison turned around, exhaling shakily. “He’s not okay now, but he will be.” 

“I should’ve been there.”

Jean bit his lip harshly. He said bluntly, “Allison, you wouldn’t have been able to understand either way.”

Her shoulders were tense as she glanced at him. Her eyes glistened with helplessness as she growled, “I’ve tried.”

“I know.” Jean held out his hand for the knife. “But don’t you ever wish you could understand what war did to us. It’s better off that way.”

Allison stared at him, her jaw clenching as she fought not to fight back. They both knew Jean was right - sometimes it was better off if the incomprehensible was only understood by those who had felt it themselves. 

Eventually she shifted, holding out the blade. Jean’s fingers closed around the handle as she chewed her lip harshly. Defeat looked terrible on anyone, but somehow it wore her down even more. 

“Thank you,” she finally said, her voice wavering only around the edges. Jean wasn’t sure what she was thanking him for: being there, understanding, or staying. Maybe it was for everything. Whatever it was, she didn’t wait for him to respond, stepping around him and pushing open the door. Jean watched her sit down at Neil’s side, before he shut the door as quietly as he could and headed outside. 

He didn’t hesitate before throwing the knife off the pier into the bay. 

Neil wasn’t whole for the longest time. The days following his attempt were awful: Neil would tug his sleeve over his scarring wrist over and over again, and he snapped multiple times when things became too much, when Allison and Jean hovered too closely.

“Stop acting like I’m going to drown myself the second you look away,” he spat bitterly, his back turned toward Jean as he leaned over the balcony.

“Forgive me if I’m just concerned about you,” Jean retorted. Neil bristled, his knuckles white from how tightly he clutched the railing.

“I am not some fragile _thing_ ,” he growled. “I do not need your help or coddling. Allison and Matt are already bad enough. I don’t need you to be like them too.”

“Neil.”

“ _Broken_ is not the only thing I am, Jean!”

“You know that’s not what I meant.” He approached his lover, but didn’t touch him. “Neil, look at me.”

After a long minute, Neil pushed off the railing and turned around. His eyes were red from lack of sleep, though his anger reignited some of the life lost in his ashen irises. Jean gazed at him, before slowly reaching up to cup his face.

“If you want me to leave, then I will leave. But I have been in your place before,” he murmured, running his thumbs underneath Neil’s closed eyes. “I know what silence does. I have suffocated too, because I refused to open my mouth. I will not force you to bare your wounds to anyone, not even me. But if you think I’m going to stand by and watch you keep choking yourself half to death, then you are mistaken.”

“I’m _trying_ ,” Neil argued, though his voice was barely louder than a breath. “I’m fucking trying, Jean. I’m trying to fight.”

Jean tugged Neil forward, pressing their foreheads together. He cradled Neil’s head gently between his hands, as his lover reached up to grip his wrists.

“I’m tired. I _hate_ it. It _hurts_ ,” he was whispering, his breath ghosting over Jean’s chin. “But I can’t stop.”

“I know,” Jean whispered back. “I know.”

Oh, and he knew it _so well_ , for it was a battle that _still_ waged inside his own ribs - even now, years after the physical war had ended.

He wrapped his arms around Neil’s frame and pulled him close. They held each other for the longest time, even as the wind grew colder, swaying into each other. Jean carded his fingers through Neil’s hair, tilting his head so he could brush his lips against Neil’s jaw.

“I’m sorry,” Neil mumbled tiredly, and Jean pulled back, tilting his chin up.

“Don’t apologize.” He searched Neil’s eyes intently, before leaning down and gently kissing him, swallowing any more of his misplaced guilt. His lover started slightly, before finally kissing him back. Trembling fingers wove through Jean’s hair, drawing him close until there was no more space left between them. Jean pulled away a few moments later to press his lips against Neil’s forehead, letting his lover sigh quietly in his arms.

Jean knew something had irrevocably broken in Neil the night that Stuart died, but his wounds were slowly beginning to close. Phantom pains would still haunt his bones - they always would, whenever he met with the Hatfords, whenever he went upstate and passed by the road leading to Stuart’s house - but his hurt wasn’t quite so open for infection anymore. War, small or worldly as it was, would always trail them like a ghost, but they didn’t need to look over their shoulders as much. 

He closed his eyes and breathed Neil in, the faint smell of cigarette smoke and whiskey and familiarity, and softly kissed him again.

 

\--

 

“Jean.”

He looked over to see his lover, knees-deep in the waves. The waters of Marseille reflected brilliantly against his irises as he smiled warmly. Jean was about to move toward him when he noticed the small figure darting out from behind his lover.

“Adalie,” he breathed - or at least he thought he did. His little sister paused, and Neil ruffled her dark hair.

“Jean!” she yelled excitedly. “I just saw the biggest fish! It was right over there!” She pointed over her shoulder to some place far off in the distance, face glowing with some sort of childish purity. It was so blinding, so _unforgettable_ , that Jean fell to his knees. 

Her skin was pale and untouched by the sun. No bruises, no cuts, no dust. She was _there_. 

Wriggling out from under Neil’s gentle hand, she ran over and threw her arms around Jean’s shoulders. A light giggle bubbled up from her chest as she said, “It was the biggest thing I’d ever seen! It had all these black and white spots on it, and _oh mon dieu_ , its mouth was so big. It could swallow us whole! Bigger than our house!”

“Adalie, _ma chérie_.” Jean could barely speak as he cradled her close. She felt so real, so warm. Humming with life and wonder. “It was a whale.”

“Jean, do you think I could catch it? Could we catch it?”

He pulled back, forcing himself to smile. “Of course.”

She giggled and ran back to Neil’s side, who was watching Jean with the saddest look on his face. Jean couldn’t make himself stand as he watched his sister run from him one last time, wading out into the shallows and splashing at the water joyfully.

 _Please don’t go_ , he wanted to plead.

Then Neil was kneeling down in front of him, tilting Jean’s chin up with gentle fingers.

“Don’t cry, love,” he whispered. Jean hadn’t even realized there were tears running down his face. “Some things, once you’ve loved them, become yours forever.”

The sea did not explode that time - it only murmured its agreement.

Jean woke up with wetness on his cheeks and an ache in his chest. Roughly, he scrubbed his hand across his eyes as he sat up, a botched sob catching in his throat so that it only sounded like a choked exhale.

(He hadn’t cried in years).

Neil was gone that time - it was mid-December and he was upstate with the Hatfords for a few days - and Kevin was still asleep. Jean leaned over, pressing his forehead against his knees, and forced himself to breathe around the tightness in his throat. His mind spun wildly as he eventually uncurled himself, running his hands through his hair and coughing slightly.

He lurched out of bed, itching for a drink, and was halfway out of the door when he stopped. Then he looked over his shoulder at the bedside table. Several long minutes passed by, and Jean just stood there like a fool, paralyzed. 

Then he slowly returned to his bedside, crouching down and pulling open the drawer. He didn’t know what possessed him to remove the various books he kept there, but he only stopped when he spotted the photo he’d been hiding from himself for years.

Adalie’s face stared back up at him, slightly smudged from dust and dirt. Jean picked up the photo, staring at it numbly.

She looked different. She looked absolutely the same.

It was almost as if he’d forgotten what she’d looked like at all.

Jean carried the photo into the kitchen, sitting down heavily at the table and pouring himself a generous glass of whiskey. He waited until he finished half the glass before daring to glance at the photo again.

Tentatively, he ran his thumb over Adalie’s immortalized face. She was grinning brightly, eyes shaped like half-moons with the force of her smile. Her hair was shorter in the photo - their father had cut it for the summer - so it barely touched her shoulders. The camera didn’t capture the full gleam of her eyes, the untainted innocence that glazed over her irises. Nothing would ever be able to do that.

But that was her. That was Adalie. His little sister.

Something snapped in Jean’s chest - but for once, it wasn’t grief. It was almost -

Some twisted form of _relief_. Like he’d been holding his breath for too long and suddenly, he remembered - _really_ remembered - how to inhale again. The _letting go_ , the belated _have a safe journey, love_ of a best friend who’d disappeared cruelly into the graves of his own heart. The _I miss you dearly, and it just won’t get better_.

And at the end of it all, the _I lost you, but you, too, were here all this time_.

Somewhere along the line, merely seeing had become truly understanding. Jean had known technically that Adalie’s death hadn’t been his fault, but it still felt _wrong_.

Perhaps Neil’s unfounded guilt over Stuart’s death had snapped something in Jean’s brain as well. Perhaps his lover’s exhausted fight had reignited something in Jean’s chest too. Because -

 _Some things, once you’ve loved them, are yours_ forever.

Because she was a ghost in his heart - so was Bastien, and everyone else he’d ever lost. They would never be truly gone until the last person who remembered them was gone too.

And Jean was still here.

He shut his eyes tightly when he felt more tears burning his eyes, leaning his forehead against the photo and exhaling tremulously.

(He wasn’t completely free - but he was somewhere on the arduous way _there_ ).

The light in the living room flickered on. Jean lifted his head to see his friend standing in the doorway, rubbing his eyes as he stared blearily at him.

“You alright?” he asked, voice hoarse from sleep. “Another nightmare?”

Jean stared at Kevin for the longest time, his hand covering Adalie’s photo. And inexplicably, he suddenly felt like laughing. It grew like a cough in his chest, expanding until he could hardly breathe. He could barely even _see_ his friend, his vision was so blurry.

“No,” he said when Kevin started looking a little too worried. “No, I’m okay.”

It didn’t feel like a lie this time.

A few days later, Jean found himself back at Renee’s empty church, sitting idly in the front row while staring up at the crucifix. A cigarette, long gone out, sat between his fingers as he listened to the sound of the occasional car passing by outside. Footsteps echoed down the aisle, and he glanced around to see Renee approaching him with a serene smile.

“I didn’t think I’d find you here,” she said as she sat down beside him. She was dressed in a plain white dress and heavy coat, her nose slightly reddened from the cold outside. “But I’m glad you are.”

Jean glanced down at the dead cigarette in his hands, before leaning back and gazing up at the ceiling. “It’s warmer in here,” he murmured.

Renee laughed softly. She untied her hair, letting it sweep across her shoulders as she glanced up at the cross. “I was thinking,” she said, her voice so quietly it was hardly a disturbance at all, “that once my work here was finished, I might start my own charity. A real one that will actually help people who need it. Jeremy was talking about it too. He doesn’t like the idea of being like everyone else, just sitting around with all the money in the world without doing anything.”

Jean hummed as Renee’s dreams floated above their heads, delicate as the snowflakes. Content silence stretched between them for several long minutes, before Renee glanced over and asked gently, “How is Neil?”

He met her eyes. “He’s dealing with it, like he does,” he replied, rubbing his cold cigarette between his fingers. “He should be coming back today.”

“That’s good.” Renee’s eyes crinkled slightly as she smiled. “You’re taking care of yourself, too?”

“I’m trying,” he said honestly. She gazed at him with some oddly open expression on her face, before she slowly reached out and rested her hand over Jean’s wrist. He let her, closing his eyes briefly as she squeezed his hand.

“I’m proud of you,” she said quietly. Like it was a secret, meant for just the two of them.

“You helped me too.” The gratitude that suddenly welled up inside him threatened to crack his chest open.

He may have been sacrilegious, sitting underneath a crucifix without a belief in God. But the more days passed, the more Jean was finding: maybe he could have faith in some people.

Renee watched him keenly, though the openness in her eyes softened into something almost golden. She looked effervescent, her smile smaller but just a trace _more_.

“Of course,” she murmured finally. “I’ll always try to help you.”

He looked away, but his silence was enough of a _thank you_ for her. Renee sighed contentedly and began to fill the quiet with her ideas for charities, how Jeremy could probably help her buy out and refurbish a part of his hotel for it. Jean was more than willing to listen as the sun crawled painstakingly through the thick wintry clouds, filling the empty church with a softened sort of light.

Neither of them knew how much time had passed before they heard the door of the church creaking open again. Jean turned around, and his heartbeat immediately quickened when he saw Neil’s familiar figure at the entrance. He stood up while Renee glanced over as his lover swept his gaze across the room.

“Neil,” he breathed, striding down the aisle to meet him. Exhausted blue eyes flickered over to him, and Jean only stopped when he was right in front of Neil.

“Kevin said I might find you here,” his lover murmured, cold hands coming up to grasp Jean’s scarf.

“How are you?”

Neil leaned his head against Jean’s chest in response. Renee’s footsteps slowly approached them as Jean buried his hands in Neil’s hair, kissing his forehead softly. Jean glanced up to see Allison watching them from outside, her face once-again covered with a dark and feathery hat. She tilted her chin up in a nod when she met Jean’s gaze, before she reached her hand out for Renee to join her. Renee smiled warmly at Jean over her shoulder, and then the door swung shut again, encasing Neil and Jean in their own world once more.

Jean eventually tilted Neil’s chin up so their eyes could meet. He gazed intently at his lover. And for a moment, behind the hazy veil of exhaustion, he thought he could see a glimmer of that same fiery lust for life Neil always possessed - even if it faded out after a few seconds.

(Just a little was always enough. Soldiers and fighters and survivors knew this by heart).

He cupped Neil’s cheek, letting his lover lean into his hand. He asked softly, “What’re you thinking about, Abram?”

Blue eyes blinked tremulously, as he searched for words. Jean thought he could see the traces of melting snowflakes in his thick lashes. After a long minute, Neil inhaled shakily and continued, “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.”

“It’s going to feel wrong for years, you know,” Jean murmured. “But you must trust me when I say: someday it won’t anymore.”

Distantly, he thought of Adalie’s photo, which he’d ended up tucking on his bookshelf where he could see it more often. He thought she could light up the entirety of New York even if everything else went out.

Neil looked up at him, lips twisted in the broken facsimile of a smile. It ghosted fleetingly across his face like a dream, but Jean caught it when he brushed his thumb over Neil’s mouth.

“You remind me of why I stayed so long in the first place.” Neil’s voice was hardly audible, and there was nothing else Jean wanted do but lean down and kiss him underneath the crucifix and crumbling weight of everything that had tried and failed to shatter them. And he could swear the fluttering inside his chest was his graveyard garden blooming anew: the tickling of long-belated _spring_.

“Thank you for that,” Jean murmured against his lips. _For staying_.

Neil pulled back, arms still around Jean’s neck, and looked around. “Nice place,” he observed idly.

“Renee remodeled it herself.”

“Do many people come?”  

“I haven’t seen.”

His lover hummed, before slipping out of Jean’s grasp. They linked their hands together as they pushed open the doors, letting the wintry air flood the room. Jean blinked against the cold, the outdoors much brighter than the belly of the warm church. Neil gasped softly.

The ground was covered with a growing layer of white. Cars sped by dangerously, the drivers eager to get home before the snow worsened. Drifting from the sky were snow crystals, falling over everything like a balm. By the streetside, Allison and Renee were standing close together. Renee had donned Allison’s hat, which was now covered in a fine dusting of snow, as they watched the cars together.

“It’s snowing.” Neil’s voice flickered with something like wonder as he held open the door. Jean’s heart swelled as he took in the sound and scene.

Because when you’ve been through hell and back, even the smallest things - snowflakes in hair, hands in scarves, breaths billowing out - seem heavenly.

“Be careful, _mon ange_ ,” Jean warned as Neil stepped outside, shoes crunching against the snow. He stared up at the sky like he was searching for something. For someone.

A few moments later his lover turned around, reaching out and cupping his hands together like he wanted to catch the snowfall. Some snowflakes had already made their way into his hair and lashes, covering him like glitter and gentleness. For a second, Neil looked almost like a child, an innocent boy who’d just seen the world for the first time - not its ugliness or cruelty, but its wondrous, impervious beauty. The sight threatened to steal Jean’s breath away.

He could imagine his sister, darting in circles around Neil’s legs, throwing herself into the gathering snow banks and demanding that they make angels with her. She always did that, whenever it snowed in France. She’d drag Jean into their yard and push him into the snow, and she wouldn’t let him up until he’d helped her carve a dozen angels into the ground.

Inexplicably, he felt himself begin to smile. And it wasn’t the half-hearted or ghostly kind - it was too big and too strange and too clumsy on his face. He was half tempted to hide it behind his hand before Neil looked up, his own lips twitching when their gazes met.

Glancing down at the snowy ground, Jean half expected, out of sheer muscle memory, to see crimson staining the white orchid pink.

But everything, for once, was pristine. He looked around, and the only flecks of cherry-blossom-pink were in Neil’s irises as the ash there began to fade. And months stood between Neil’s crash into rock bottom, even longer for Jean, and they were both well on their way to the arduous climb out.

 _Restoration_ \- the ocean without its halcyon glimmer, but roaring and swelling with life.

 _Reclamation_ \- the softest pink not in the blood as it stained the snow, but in the blushing cheeks.

He reached out and took Neil’s arm, tugging him close. Kissing him hard, Jean could only hope Neil could taste the sweet relief on his lips, the _disbelief_ , the first sunrise of many to come. And when Neil made the faintest noise of surprise, before melting into Jean and kissing him back, he knew he’d understood.

“Jean,” his lover breathed against his mouth.

“Mm.”

“Catch me if I fall?”

Snowflakes brushed against their reddened noses, startlingly cold, but they paid no mind to them. Neil stood on his toes, so that Jean could lay a soft kiss on his jaw without having to bend down too far.

“Of course.”

Somehow it felt like they’d made it. It didn’t make sense at all - things were far from over. Things had probably only just begun. 

But right then, with Neil safely in his arms, with the spring flowers blooming in their hearts despite the winter everywhere else, it felt too much like a victory.

 

\--

 

By the time the snow had stopped falling and melted away, Neil’s house was once-again alight and lively - this time for the beginning of the new year.

Admittedly, Jean never really celebrated new years much. The most his family used to do was go out into their snowy backyard to watch the fireworks explode in the distance. He’d never seen the glory in a day passing into another - but he supposed he could understand it now.

After all, another year stood between him and the Great War now.

At the moment, Kevin was talking it up with some lady named Thea. Jean struggled not to roll his eyes at his friend’s clumsy attempts at flirting, though Thea didn’t seem to mind. He sipped slowly at a glass of bourbon while watching the crowd slip by. He didn’t know how long he’d spent just standing at the bar, only that the sky was getting darker and darker, and the exciting thrum in the air kept getting louder and louder.

Jean was moving onto his third glass of liquor when he felt someone touch his elbow lightly. He jolted, only to find Neil gazing back at him, faintly amused.

“Come upstairs with me,” his lover murmured into his ear, before tugging Jean away from the bar. They brushed around the crowd, no one even noticing their mysterious figure of a host was _right there_ with them, and managed to get to Neil’s bedroom without hassle. His lover kicked the door shut behind them, hand still holding Jean’s, and pulled him onto the balcony.

“What’re you doing?” Jean asked.

“Watching the fireworks with you.” Neil said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“It’s your own party. You’ve never seen them before?”

“It’s Matt and John who always set them off,” he murmured, leaning against the railing. “Otherwise the parties would all be the same. You have to keep them guessing, you know.”

Jean instinctively reached out to pull Neil back when he began to tip too far over the railing. “Careful.”

“I’m not trying to fall.”

The unspoken _anymore_ rang between them, louder than any gunshot truth or midnight firecracker. Neil’s eyes were wide but pleasantly _alive_ ; the haunting riot of flickering life put the soft pink sea foam back in his ocean eyes, put the graveyard gate one inch closer to locking up for good.

He was there, unreal as he was _right there_. Everything cruel and unusual and beautiful about life was there, in his bones, in his still-beating heart. Fierce and roaring.

And Jean decided, foolishly and spontaneously, (but maybe for a long time coming) that maybe it wasn’t so bad that he still had some things - _people_ \- to die for.

“I want to kiss you,” he murmured, because his throat was locked and he’d never be able to articulate anything he wanted to say properly. Neil smiled slightly, _still_ understanding, eyes dropping down to Jean’s lips.

“It’s not midnight yet,” he said, holding his hand against Jean’s chest.

He rolled his eyes but waited, letting Neil lean against them as they gazed into the sky. It seemed like the party downstairs could only get livelier, the noises and laughter and music vibrating even against the balcony.

“Can you see yourself out there?” Neil murmured after a long while, eyeing the stars. Jean glanced down at him, before tugging him even closer.

“Next to her.” He closed his eyes, let Neil imagine the stars for him. “Next to you.”

His lover’s voice was barely audible. “I like that.”

As if on cue, the telltale pop of the first firework being set off echoed around the bay. They both looked up just in time to see the entire night light up in a flash of brilliant orange. Then across the sound, by the East Egg, green lights exploded and trickled over the water.

Everywhere, the world was on fire. And it was magnificent.

Jean promptly turned and pressed Neil against the balcony, kissing him senseless underneath the illumination of a thousand fireworks. His heart pounded against his ribs, but this time, he couldn’t tell if it because of the flashes behind his eyelids, the piercing bangs rippling through the sky, or Neil’s honey-sweet lips, hot and _alive_ , on his.

(Every kiss felt like he was fighting on the front lines again).

((But it was one of the only fights Jean would gladly welcome)).

Neil’s fingers pulled lightly at his hair, and he gasped when Jean suddenly reached down and lifted him up onto the railing. A breathy laugh vibrated in his throat as he parted his legs so Jean could slot himself between them, arms wrapping around Neil’s waist to keep him steady. Biting down on his full lower lip, Jean relished the quiet moan he elicited, tucking the noise away for safekeeping along with the rest of Neil’s laughs and sounds.

They only broke apart long enough for Jean to whisper against his lover’s parted lips, “Happy New Year, Neil Josten.”

“And you, Jean Moreau.” Then they were kissing again, this time, all teeth and tongue. Heat spread through Jean’s entire body as he left Neil’s lips swollen and red, biting and kissing his way down Neil’s neck. He shuddered, holding onto Jean like he was his lifeline.

“Bed,” he managed to say, and Jean grunted in affirmation. He let his lover slip back down, and they managed to stumble back inside, still kissing, without tripping over themselves. Neil fell against the bed with a soft huff while Jean straddled him, hands fiddling at his collar.

“Is this okay? Are you okay?” he checked when he finally loosened Neil’s tie enough to pull it away, tossing it onto the floor. Breathlessly, Neil nodded and yanked Jean close, crushing their lips together almost desperately.

“Come on,” he whispered.

“Patience, _mon ange_.” Jean leaned down to kiss the hollow of his throat, lapping across the tattered skin there, while Neil let out a syrupy noise. Fingers weaving through Jean’s hair, Neil’s chest trembled with soft breaths while Jean began to unbutton his shirt.

“Okay?” Jean asked again, looking up and meeting his lover’s eyes. Even in the dark, they threatened to pierce right through him.

After only the briefest hesitation, Neil whispered, “Yes.”

He let out a shuddering breath when Jean ran his hands reverently over bare skin. Then he dipped his head down, brushing his lips against the war trenches and rivers running across Neil’s chest and belly. His lover gasped quietly, though the noise was immediately swallowed up by the distant pop and burst of fireworks.

“You're beautiful,” Jean found himself mumbling, tracing his fingers down Neil’s soft sides and kissing one larger scar in particular, one that ended right above his navel. His own chest felt like it was bursting, swollen with unnameable emotions, at the thought of Neil trusting him enough to bare his worst wounds open. Jean wanted to replace every memory, every harsh flashback and line, with something softer - something better - for the both of them.

And he knew it would take time, probably years, but he knew it had started from the moment he’d first kissed Neil.

Lucky for them, there was no visible end in sight.

Neil made an upset noise when Jean paused, panting, “Is something wrong - ”

“Shh.” He cut him off with another long kiss, before tapping lightly at Neil’s shoulders. “Can this come off?”

“Okay,” he whispered. “Y-Yes.”

Everything fell away from there. Jean got Neil’s shirt completely off and laid three kisses on his scarred shoulder while his lover struggled to remove his bow tie. He only removed his hands from Neil’s body long enough to help take off his own shirt, before pressing his lover into the mattress once more. There was nothing left to separate them as they fought to meld together, the flashes of the fireworks outside the open balcony doors illuminating the opposite wall with their rolling shadows. Bare skin against skin, hot and desperate, consumed with a heady kind of lust that narrowed the world to just the two of them. Completely naked, unashamed, and undeniably _alive_ , like the electricity ran through their veins and sparked whenever their lips met.

Neil clutched desperately at Jean’s shoulders, chest heaving as Jean slowly kissed and licked his way down his body. He ran his hands across Neil’s thighs, sucking a bruise right against his hip. His name had never sounded so good before he heard it leave Neil in a syrupy moan.

So they made love, right there, shielded by the light of a thousand colors and stars. It was slow and unsteady. Pleasure roared through them, fierce and all-consuming, as the world cleaved apart, until it was just Neil, Neil, _Neil_ . For a moment, Jean didn’t know anything but the way Neil sounded when he was being taken apart; the collision of bodies, the connection of bare souls; the entrusting of the ugliest parts of each other in the other’s hands; the _do what you want with me, because I know you can handle me_. Their sharp edges didn’t cut them, even as Jean sank into Neil.

They kissed like war, but fucked like they were trying to find peace.

(They took their graveyard gardens and built paper homes over them. And the corpses of their past would always lie in their chests, but slowly, they were planting flower beds over them - and the blossoms spilled out from between their ribs).

Shutting his eyes tightly, Jean reached up to link their hands together, their bodies locked in a constant push-and-pull. Sweat rolled down between his shoulders as he mouthed at Neil’s neck, squeezing his hands as he pressed them above Neil’s head.

“Jean,” Neil said, strained. “I’m - ”

He quieted his lover with a hard kiss, and before long, Neil arched into him with a shuddering moan. Almost immediately afterward, Jean shivered harshly with a cut-off groan, his own vision whiting out for several moments as he came. The high flushed almost violently through his veins before fizzling out slowly. He collapsed at Neil’s side as they both struggled to catch their breaths and come down, running a trembling hand down Neil’s cheek.

A breathless smile, brighter than any of the goddamn fireworks that night, crossed Neil’s face as he turned toward Jean.

“Thank you,” he whispered. “That was amazing.”

Jean pushed himself up, before leaning down to press his lips against Neil’s bare shoulder. Something swelled inside of him as he did so. Not the lusty kind of need, but some kind of desperate temptation to cut himself open and let all the truths he’d kept long-hidden fall out of his mouth, one-by-one. The urge to tell Neil everything - _everything_ \- before the words expired, before he forgot them altogether. His chest ached as he looked up, meeting his lover’s eyes, hazy in the afterglow of their time together.  

Neil reached up, breathless smile snagged between his teeth, and tapped his finger against Jean’s left cheekbone.

“You’re more than what the war did to you, you know,” he murmured. 

Jean closed his eyes - he feared he’d break if he stared at Neil a moment longer. He leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together. 

“I know.” Then he grabbed Neil’s hand, lifting it up so he could place a kiss right over his ring. “And you’re more than what your family was, alright?”

His lover sighed, melting into Jean’s arms. His voice was almost too soft to be heard. 

“I’ll get it eventually.”

Jean reached up, brushed his thumb over the corner of Neil’s mouth. Leaned in close, so he could kiss the corner of it.

“I love you.”

They were words of the faintest breath, so soft that they weren’t even words at all, but gusts of wind. Remnants of dreams and stuttered recovery that came together to assemble the man in Jean’s arms, feverish and desperate and _real_.

Neil stared at him like he couldn’t recognize him, and where Jean should’ve immediately pulled away, where he should’ve felt _cold_ , he _didn’t_. Because Neil’s smile only widened as his mouth opened to form the same words.

 _I love you, too_.

He didn’t say them out loud; all that came out was a shaky breath.

But they both knew what he’d meant.

(Another lover hits the universe).

((But the universe is merciful this time, and cradles him gently between two scarred hands and a promise, which is -

 _Some things, once you’ve loved them, become yours forever_ )).

Jean pressed their foreheads together, closing his eyes. Neil’s fingers were gentle as they massaged his scalp, and Jean whispered, “We need to get cleaned up.”

“I’m fine right here.”

“Tsk. Lazy.”

When they finally bathed themselves and fixed the bed, Neil crawled underneath the covers and held them open for Jean. They’d dressed but kept their chests bare, so Jean could absently trace over Neil’s scars as his lover pillowed his head against Jean’s shoulder. Intertwining their fingers, Jean lifted Neil’s hand up and laid a tender kiss over the scar running across his wrist. Downstairs, someone screamed exuberantly, followed by obnoxiously loud cheering and whooping.

Neil shivered at his ministrations, murmuring, “They won’t leave for a while.”

“That’s alright.” Curling his arms around Neil’s waist, Jean drew him closer. They laid together for a while, body heat contrasting sharply with the cool draft that filtered through the open balcony doors. He was perfectly content to stay there all night with his lover, just listening to the muffled crackle of fireworks and conversation in the courtyard.

“You know,” Neil murmured, resting his hand against Jean’s chest. “The Hatfords are thinking of permanently expanding to the states.”

“Oh?” He carded a hand through Neil’s damp curls, and the tension seeped from his body with a sigh.

“I can’t just leave. My home is here,” he mumbled, shutting his eyes. “And it’ll be good for them too. Less hassle and more power.”

A tremulous pause, then Neil continued. “I never had a home before. Life with - with my father meant quiet. Staying hushed in the shadows while he had his meetings. It was always like that, until my mother took me and ran.” He swallowed, before tilting his head so he could meet Jean’s gaze.

“I couldn’t afford to have the same name for too long. I was always meant to disappear,” he said softly. “ _Neil Josten_ was the first name I chose for myself, and that was the name I took into the war with me.”

“It’s awfully fitting.” Neil smiled wryly at Jean’s words, reaching up and squeezing his wrists.

“I always wanted to be remembered,” he confessed, like it was a sin, “in any way I could. Even if no one else bothered to make an effort.” 

That was the thing with Neil: he didn’t realize just how unforgettable he was. Even without the parties and luxury and wealth. His smile, after all, was the kind you’d only see once or twice in a lifetime.

“They’re a rotten crowd.” Jean echoed Allison’s words from before, his chest clenching as he brushed one of Neil’s stray curls away from his forehead. Then he leaned down and gently kissed him, and murmured against his lips, “You’re worth the whole damn bunch put together.”

Neil made a muffled noise but reached up, tugging Jean down closer. They kissed for a while, as the fireworks outside finally began to die down, encasing them in complete moonlit darkness. When Jean opened his eyes, Neil was already gazing at him. A strip of starlight traced across his irises, igniting them in a line of silvery fire.

“I don’t think I was happy for the longest time,” Neil whispered, hands falling.

“Is it different now?” Jean asked quietly.

For the briefest seconds, in between the spaces of celebration and conversation, all he could hear was Neil’s steady breathing.

Then, his answer. “ _Yes._ ”

Jean had to close his eyes and turn away, because the smile growing on his face just felt too lopsided and _big_. It was an old kind of smile, one that was years old. The accidental kind, the _best_ kind. Neil kissed him on the corner of his mouth, and Jean shivered as a breath of relieved, giddy laughter caught between his teeth.

 _They were going to be okay_.

But of course the war was always going to be there. They would always carry it with them: traces of ghosts hovering in their graveyard chests, rapid pulses as they pressed close to each other. To live, after all, was to fight one battle after another. It wasn’t just in the bullets flying or artillery shells or ships rocking at sea; it was in the gnashing teeth and bloodied knuckles and torn-up wrists and still-beating hearts. It was the foolish tenacity with which they clung to life with, the weary stubbornness and irrefutable survival instinct. The loss and the gains, the cruel, calculating way the world always balanced itself in the end.

Some truths were harsher than others. Some truths were the bullets fired between the fourth and fifth ribs. Some truths were the knives in the back and the chilling hush of winter.

But other truths were softer, _kinder_. Other truths were the hyacinths blooming through the bullet holes and wounds. Other truths were the cherry blossoms floating in the sea, the Marseille beach and ocean eyes and cigarettes dipped in champagne.

Some truths hurt, but others healed.

And the truth was this: some wars were worth fighting. And some wars must be fought alone, but many would be fought with and against others. Jean’s little army was slowly beginning to grow, and he’d have to keep teaching himself to trust them to have his back. That whenever things became tough, they’d remain steady.

And he’d have to trust that the things he left behind, the people he lost, would still be there when he caught up to them eventually.

Another truth: often the bravest people weren’t the ones who charged headfirst into combat, but the ones who were stuck in the bottoms of the trenches, drowning at sea. The ones who’d seen the worst, came away broken, but still had the audacity to decide that breathing was somehow worth all the pain.

Jean remembered when he first came to the states, the way he’d viewed the faithless cities and faithless people. The way the world was somehow _less_.

It still was. There was always going to be less in it, without Adalie, without his parents, without Bastien. But Jean also had more than he’d ever thought he’d have. He had a new family, people who would fight alongside him even if the cause seemed lost - even if _only one_ of them knew by heart how to fire a gun.

Between the broken, hollow man that first arrived at New York, and the man lying in his lover’s bed with the taste of spring clear on his tongue, Jean had come a long way.

He figured he could take one moment, one break, to catch his breath.

“Jean.” Neil’s murmur pierced through his thoughts, and Jean blinked at him. “What’re you thinking about?”

He waited only a moment before reaching out and pulling Neil close to him, pressing their foreheads together.

“About how very rare, how strange, and how utterly wonderful it’s been,” he whispered, “to know someone like you, Neil Abram Josten.”

His lover’s smile just then split the universe open. He reached up to hold Jean’s wrists, squeezing them as he shut his eyes. They breathed together.

 

\--

 

Here was the final truth: they were damaged; they were lost; but they were brave. As quiet as they were, they were _brave_.

And just as winter would always turn to spring, and spring would always melt into summer, they would keep going.

And they were never letting this go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, thank you so much for reading!! leave comments/kudos if you liked this, make sure to send [iris](http://exyfexyfoxes.tumblr.com/) love!! this was over way too fast oh my, but a wonderful experience :) 
> 
> <3

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE!! jean and neil's characters will be altered slightly (particularly jean) BECAUSE the ravens/moriyamas do not exist in this universe. i tried my best to retain their original qualities while fusing this w the great gatsby universe + changed backstories, but it still may seem ooc. just a disclaimer


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